A Rose with Thorns
by EverspringNative
Summary: What if Christine wasn't a brainless waif unable to make a decision? What if she were a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it? And what if, in the bowels of the theater, Erik suddenly didn't know what hit him? My first and most likely only EC.
1. Chapter 1

A Rose with Thorns

Chapter 1

What Should Have Happenedby the Lakeside

Christine rose from sleep with music in her head and warmth all around. The black curtains were lowered, allowing her privacy…but from whom? Her feet touched the cold stone floor as she rose from the bed and felt herself drawn toward the sound of music.

Memories flooded back, a torrent of emotions she had never felt before ebbing to the surface. Hands, strong, steady, masculine hands that had guided her down the candlelit corridors, down into a world she had never seen before.

Her heart raced as she once again witnessed that same candle filled world. She remembered how those same leather-gloved hands had held her, caressed her, set her blood hotter than the flames that had surrounded them.

And there he was again; that beautiful stranger playing a pipe organ for her, sound wrapping around her as she tiptoed up, wondering who he was.

He turned and saw her but said nothing. He merely played and Christine could not deny how strongly she felt drawn to him. Her hand caressed his face, his smooth, clean-shaven face. Her fingers brushed past his lips as he savored her touch, his eyes closed, head rolling back as he silently permitted her to feel him.

Touch me, he had said. Trust me…

Her fingers touched the mask, her mind set on ending his ruse. Surely this was part of a masquerade, the game that was at an end now that she was awake.

He lashed out so violently that Christine had no way of reacting. She was shoved to the floor, forced to watch through strands of her thick hair as he shoved candles to the ground and cursed her. He uncovered several mirrors and taunted her as she sat unmoving, his mask in her hands. As he stormed about her gaze traveled between him and the mask. He briefly held his hand away from his face, showing her his scarred reflection.

Try as she might, Christine could not help but blanch, though her reaction was more to his sudden burst of rage than his revealed face. She lowered her eyes as his anger subsided and he sat on the stairs with his back to her and his hand over the right side of his face.

"Oh, Christine…"

Slowly he reached back, requesting the mask, the only thing that could hide the monster he had become before her eyes.

Christine held it out, and as his fingers grasped it at last she pulled her hand back, taking the mask with her. She stared at him as he sat slumped over, his body heaving with each breath.

"I will not beg," his voice rumbled. "For what is rightfully mine."

Christine wobbled to her feet, her heart pounding with fear, hands trembling as she carried the mask away and returned to the bed where she had lain.

"No," she murmured. "I don't expect you will."

It was quite some time before he followed her, and when she saw him again he was wearing a different mask, one which covered both sides of his face, leaving only his lips and chin visible. Though she could see little of him she knew by his eyes that he was livid.

"Come, we must return."

She turned away from him, sliding the mask she had taken from him under the pillows.

"Those two…" he paused."What are you doing?"

Her dark eyes stared up at him. "Why must I return?"

Confusion flashed in his eyes. "Because that is where you belong, Christine."

She studied him a moment, her brows furrowed.

His jaw tensed. "I command you—"

"Angels have wings, don't they? And halos and—"

"Stand!" he bellowed.

Christine jumped but didn't move from her spot on the bed. She looked away, hearing him breathing harder than before.

"You're only a man," she whispered. "You're not an angel, you're not a ghost. You're just…who are you?"

"That is none of your concern," he snapped.

His words angered her and she glared at him. "Because I am to be your victim?"

He looked away before she did. "Get up," he tried again, his voice losing strength. His eyes had softened, appearing more sorrowful than vengeful as he stood over her. "Before someone notices you are missing."

Christine nodded but still didn't move. "May I ask where we are?"

"No."

"Are you going to kill me?"

His lips parted and he blinked at her before finally shaking his head. "It is time I take you back. Stand."

"If not to kill me, then why did you bring me here? Was it to…molest me?"

She saw a smile tug at the corners of his lips before he shook his head. "You have always asked so many questions," he sighed as he turned away. "For as long as I have…known you."

Her eyes brightened when he turned away. She did know him. She knew that voice, that deep, kind, almost remorseful voice. This was the Angel of Music, this was the entity that had lulled her to sleep, that had badgered her when she skipped her ballet lessons or given up on her singing.

"Say something more," she said as she closed her eyes. "Tell me once again about the Great Wall of China, the pyramids in Egypt, the—"

Christine heard his feet shuffle toward her and felt his hands on hers. "No stories."

Her head lowered, eyes remaining closed as he lightly caressed her hands. "You cannot look at me, can you?"

"No," she admitted, her eyes peering open to search his. In her mind she had always pictured a man with hair so blonde it was almost white, with wings so long he could not fit in the dormitory. He would have light blue eyes and a round, chubby face with apple cheeks. "Not if you wear a mask."

He drew back but didn't stand, his eyes turning from green to a dark bluish gray. "It would be a grave mistake on your part, Mademoiselle, if you were to remove this mask."

"Why?" she whispered. "Why were you angry with me?"

"You should not take what is not yours, Christine."

Christine leaned forward, studying his eyes. "Why did you take me through the mirror?"

He didn't reply and Christine wondered if he knew the answer. She watched as he climbed to his feet and took several steps back.

"What is your name?"

"It's not important."

"It is to me," she blurted out, shooting up from her seat. She caught herself too late and sighed, mentally cursing herself as she decided to continue, frustration winning out over good sense. This man was not a stranger to her. He was an enigma, but she felt close to him.

"No, it is not," he argued. "It is not important to anyone."

"I've known of you for years and never seen your face or heard your name and now when I do see you, you act as though you want me to be gone."

He stared at her grimly but offered no words.

"Now, Monsieur Opera Ghost—Angel of Music, if you please, why have you brought me here?"

He considered her words a moment before he turned away. "My name is Erik, and now it is time for you to leave, Christine."

She waited for him to turn around again, and when he finally did he looked as flummoxed as she expected.

"An hour more," she said, but before she spoke Erik disappeared around the corner, leaving her alone in the bedroom.


	2. An Insistent Rose

Ch 2

Erik wasn't certain if he should be overjoyed that Christine wished to stay or angered that she refused to leave. He waded through sheet music strewn across the floor, hands on his hips as he walked through the mess. Some of the papers were burned, others covered in wax from his tantrum.

He glanced back at the bedchamber and grit his teeth, imagining her sitting there staring at the mask she had stolen from him. It angered him that she was so insolent, but he was also relieved that she hadn't followed him.

He couldn't bear to think of how frightened she had appeared while he acted so childishly, tearing apart his apartments in a rage. He needed a moment to compose himself and prevent another outburst. The last thing he wanted to do was lose control before her. He wanted to appear dignified, gentlemanly, not raving and mad.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, remembering how he had led her down the hall, whisking her away down the five levels of the opera house.

His hand squeezed into fists as he thought about how she had felt in his arms when he laid her down in bed. A thousand nights before Erik had lain awake and imagined what it would be like to have her beside him. He envisioned her in the middle of the satin sheets, her hair framing her face, chest rising and falling as she slept peacefully. He thought about running his fingers gently down her arms, along her face, through her hair.

Papers shuffling drew his attention, and when he turned he saw Christine kneeling down as she gathered sheet music in her hands. She glanced up at him before she pushed her hair away from her face.

She continued to collect the papers while he looked on, uncertain of what he wanted to do. He thought, quite cynically, that he enjoyed her company more when she wasn't asking questions, but, knowing her well enough, he knew her silence would be short-lived.

He needed to speak before she did, to draw her under his protective wing, to persuade her just as he did from behind the mirror.

He needed to use the power of his voice. With a deep breath, he opened his mouth, intending to sing to her once more.  
"How did you do it?" she asked, averting her eyes as she spoke.

"Let your—" he spoke over her, catching himself too late.

Christine stared at him a moment, her lips parted and eyebrows raised in question. "Pardon me?"

"People will be alarmed once they discover you are missing," he said, finding his irritation growing. "Come with me."

"There's a monkey," she said suddenly as she stood and placed the papers on a table. She dusted off her hands and licked her lips nervously. "By the bed. He has cymbals, and he was playing a tune. It's…"

"It's what?" he snapped.

"Quite frightful, really. The way it stares…" Her eyes wandered around the lair.

"It's not real," he muttered. "It can't see you."

She shrugged. "One never knows what is real and what is not within the opera house," she said as she wandered back into the bedchamber.

"Christine," he said as he stomped down the stone stairs, wishing he had devised a better plan. Once he had her in his home he expected her to accept her fate, trusting him as she always did. He expected a questioning child to become an obedient young woman who listened to her husband as though his word was the law of God.

Clearly, that was not how things were going.

"May I ask you something?"

Erik had a feeling that if he told her no she would still ask, so he followed her in and stood in the doorway. "There are stairs through that door," he said, nodding to the opposite end of the room.

"Oh," she said as she sat down on the edge of the bed and ran her hands over her forearms.

"Are you cold?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," she replied, her teeth chattering.

He watched her closely for a moment, uncertain of whether or not she was mocking him. "Fine, then," he said at last as he turned and brought her his cloak.

With the heavy fabric draped over her shoulders she looked inconceivably small and innocent, her large, dark eyes blinking up at him.

"What hour is it?" she yawned.

Removing his pocket watch, he glanced up to see her eyes closing slowly, body slightly swaying as she remained seated.

"Two," he said rather loudly, which made her jump.

"In the afternoon?"

"Morning, I would gather," he said, feeling wide awake. Being that he only traveled at night, he held a different schedule than everyone else.

"Ah," she said, her head tipping forward. "I'm so tired."

"Then you best return to your room at once," he said as he walked around the bed to retrieve another cape. "Before you are too tired to walk up the stairs. Of course, once the damp air hits your face you should be fine." He glanced over his shoulder and saw her nod. Finally, he was convincing her to return. Perhaps if he returned her now she would think it was all nothing more than a dream, a strange but wonderful dream. She would wake up in the morning and think it was all silly, absurd really. After a few weeks he would come back to her and make another attempt. By that time she would forget all that she saw, he hoped.

"To your feet, Mademoiselle, before you—"

He turned and frowned at her, his nerves on end. She was already lying on her side before he finished speaking, snuggled up in his cloak with her eyes shut and a blissful smile on her face.

For the first time since he had laid eyes upon her Erik didn't see an angel.

Everything he had always wanted was before him, he thought, but for the life of him he couldn't understand why he wanted to be rid of her.

He allowed his cloak to fall to the floor as he walked toward the bed and studied her oval face.

Christine was gaining the upper hand, and he would be damned if a woman controlled him.


	3. Shreiking Violet

Chapter 3

Christinewoke several hour later. She turned from her side to her back and yawned, remembering at last. Everything seemed so distant, so strange, so much like the stage rather than reality.

The stage, she thought with a smile.

Her performance left her feeling exhilarated. She danced to the chapel, intending to escape the crowds for one moment of reflection.

It was then that she realized what she had known all ready in her heart: No matter how many thousands of people listened to her sing there would always be one person who would never witness the birth of her career. The man who had first played the violin for her and piqued her interest in music had been dead for years. He would have been proud, she thought.

Before she realized it, Christine found herself with her head buried in the soft pillows to muffle the sound of her crying. The last thing she wanted was for Erik, her former Angel of Music, to walk in. But, try as she might, it was impossible, and as she continued to cry she heard him approach the bed.

"What's this?" he growled.

"Go away," she hiccupped, doing nothing to abolish her childish appearance.

He stood over her, a frightful, stone-faced monolith glaring down at her, his arms crossed and feet shoulder-width apart.

"You should be back in your own bed," he said at last.

His words made her cry harder, and Christine knew that she was to a point where she needed to exhaust herself, as there was absolutely nothing that would end her tears.

She heard Erik exhale hard, clearly annoyed by her emotional display. With one long, wailing cry she lifted her head and slammed her fists against the soft mattress, which failed to accentuate her anger.

"You heartless, ghastly, wicked man!" she raged. "Have you no sympathy? No understanding?"

His stone-cold expression changed to panic at her outburst, encouraging Christine to climb to her bare feet. She stood on a soft fur rug, knowing that lying down for so long had done nothing beneficial to her hair. It angered her to think of what he saw:A blotchy-faced, tear-streaked, sniveling girl in wrinkled clothes looking quite mad with her disheveled hair.

"I wish I were in my own bed! With my own sheets and my own pillows and without you!" she screamed, hearing her angry echo carry through his apartments.

"Say another word and I will gag and bind you and drag you upstairs!"

Her eyes flashed around the room. "I will swim home!" she seethed, her chest heaving and face burning in anger.

"That is utterly ridiculous and infantile!"

Christine turned away for a moment and hefted the music box of a monkey in Persian robes, shaking it to emphasize her point before she tossed it back on the bed. The cymbals played once in protest.

Nostrils flared, he stared at her, disbelieving what he had witnessed.

"Find your own damned way back," he said between his teeth before he turned on his heel and stormed away.

"Everything is your fault! You're the reason I'm down here...like...like a prisoner!" she screamed, seeing him cringe at the pitch of her voice. She coughed into the crook of her elbow, her anger becoming painful to her vocal chords.

He glared at her over his shoulder. "You're destroying your voice."

She screamed for no other reason than to antagonize him despite realizing that she wasn't angry with him. Her outburst was one of mourning, of pain that she buried but that constantly reemerged like a stubborn phoenix.

Almost immediately Christine realized her mistake as he stalked toward her, his green eyes turned icy blue. He grabbed her by the arms and shook her, ending her tantrum.

"You will ruin your voice, you stupid girl," he said so calmly that it made Christine's knees weak.

"And that's all you care about, isn't it? My voice. 'Christine, you have a beautiful voice, Christine you sang lovely tonight, Christine your singing improves each time I teach you'," she mocked. "Is that all you care about? How well I can sing?"

His eyes pierced through her but he didn't speak, and for a moment Christine thought he would drag her up the stairs. He was always very strict with her, constantly insisting that her voice was good, but she wasn't perfect. She knew music, but she didn't know enough. He could make her excel, give her what she needed to be the best soprano Paris had ever seen.

Her expression suddenly changed, her lip quivering. "Or is it my voice? Is it me that you care about…or is this all…for you and your triumph?"

His eyes hardened, his tone emerging soft and low, like thunder in the distance voicing an approaching storm. She saw him struggling for power, for the sway he had held over her for so long as he stood in shadows and encouraged her talent. Part of her had yearned for his constant guidance, for his commanding words to show her the way.

"You lack passion," he had said to her one night.

"Will you show me how I may obtain passion?" she had innocently asked.

That night he had gone silent, muttering that it wasn't yet time.

But as she grew older, another part of her—a deep and dark part of her—wanted to find her own path and her own passion. She was tired of his persistent need to keep her under his wing. She needed more from him.

And now she wasn't sure if he helped her out of love for her or out of his own selfish needs.

"Why?" she asked, her eyes narrowed.

Just as quickly as she had felt the pendulum swing it had turned against her, sweeping her from the pedestal she climbed upon once she refused to leave his home. She looked into his eyes and knew he would not easily back down. He was not a man to be cowed.

"Because I saw your talent. I saw what you were and what you could become if you took the time to see it for yourself. Is this what you want, Christine? To argue with me? Is this how you intend to repay me?"

"You offered to teach me as my angel. I never asked you to spend your nights as my teacher."

"I've given you everything," he said coldly.

Christine slowly shook her head. "That's not true," she whispered, turning her head to the side as she gazed into his torrid eyes.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

The way he gripped her arms and stared at her was the most powerful thing she had ever witnessed. He exuded fierce, masculine strength and stubborn, aggressive possession. She should have been quite frightened, as for every ounce of manliness before her was equaled by rage. But while he could harness his anger still, there was nothing to hold back what he was: a very passionate man.

Christine looked into his blazing eyes and saw her own anger, her own passion, and her own pain. She closed her eyes to all of it and parted her lips, finding his mouth fit perfectly against hers, begging him to surrender one last thing.


	4. Not an Easy Rose to Bed

Chapter 4

Christine's kiss was like adding dry wood to an ever-growing blaze. Erik's immediate rage was jolted, his grip loosening then tightening again as he registered what was happening.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't force his closed eyes to open again. She paralyzed him, melted the cold he had felt for so long in one petrifying moment of consuming passion.

And she didn't stop. She clung to him, her fingers gripping his sides, torso pressed to his. Erik's hands abandoned the hold they kept on her arms in favor of wrapping around her back, holding her so close that no space remained between their bodies.

She aggravated him, sent his mind in a dozen different directions, but she stirred him in ways nothing had ever done before. Music was joy, but Christine was intoxicating pleasure, a delicacy he could not imbibe frequently enough. She wasn't on his mind; she was in his blood, in every beat of his heart. And now she was closer than ever before in ways Erik had always thought impossible, forbidden to a beast such as himself. It added to her allure, to the longing that penetrated every hour of every day.

Neither of them spoke when the kiss was slowly broken, both of them lingering, tasting and testing one another. Erik's nerves felt as though they were on fire, his every sense heightened, his desire everything but sated.

He knew his want for her was obvious as he held Christine against him. The blush to her cheeks and the slight smile on her swollen lips confirmed that she was well aware of him. It had only been a kiss, he told himself, no promise of more. He was foolish, inexperienced and brazen to expect anything.

As much as it pained him—physically and mentally—he knew he had to make Christine leave now, before something happened—before she could regret him more than he knew she already would.

"Christine—" Erik said, his voice low and husky.

Without a sound, Christine drew little circles along his back, her caress moving ever so slowly down his spine until her fingers pressed into his sides, bringing him impossibly closer. She smiled when he stopped speaking, appearing satisfied in her games.

Her small, soft hands pressed to his chest, her fingers splayed, searching beneath his shirt until he thought his heart would cease to beat, that the heat he felt building inside would turn them both to ash.

"I want to know," she said quietly. "About this man."

Erik grit his teeth, his nostrils flaring. "What man?"

Her eyes flickered up to meet his. "This man," she said, keeping her hands over his heart. "Who will offer me his home, his food, the use of his paper and pen, but most of all…"

"What. Most of all what? Tell me."

She smiled at his impatience and pressed another kiss to his mouth. "Most of all his trust."

It sounded absurd to his ears. The last thing on his mind was speaking. He wanted to toss her on his bed and devour her in the most ungentlemanly fashion, but here she stood, the woman that he had loved for years, asking him to be more to her than a voice in shadows.

"Trust for what?"

Her eyes fixed on her hands still covering his heart. "For two things."

"Name them," he said, agitation rising.

Christine's grin widened on his desire to please her. "Trust that I will return to you soon enough and when I do you will not lay a hand on me unless I consent to it. Do I have your word?"

With great reluctance he nodded.

"You must understand, Erik, that for years we have known each other only in voice. If it is to be something more…I believe we shall see in time."

"What shall we see?"

"What we feel for one another."

He gripped her tightly. "I know what I feel for you. It's the only thing I've ever felt in my life for anyone," he confessed.

Christine thought a moment, her eyes closing briefly as she smiled. "I feel strongly for you as well."

Erik sighed in relief. He had been terrified of facing her the morning after he brought her to his apartments. At the time his only thought was to keep her from the new patron, whom he knew was fond of Christine. But once she was asleep in the room he had made for her he didn't know what to do, and so he had kept his distance and his mind focused on music.

When she appeared from her room he had hoped she would be drawn to the music and take her seat beside him, singing for him with no questions asked. That was how he envisioned their life together: him composing and playing music and her singing. How exactly they would arrive from him whisking her away to her accepting the new life he had planned he had never attempted to imagine. It would merely be what she did and they would be happy.

Christine took a step back and smoothed her hands over her skirt. "When I look into your eyes I see love," she said.

He stood panting, completely at a loss for words, wanting nothing more than for Christine to continue. Most assuredly this had to be a dream, a pleasant, perfect dream that would end in heartache as he shot up in bed and found only darkness. His hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms. The pain told him that she was really there.

"But when I feel you against me," Christine said, her head cocked to the side. "I feel only lust. Only one of them is true."

Erik knew he was gawking at her but could do nothing but close his mouth and nod. He didn't know what she wanted. All he knew for certain was that she gave her word that she would return and promises meant little to him.

"You wish to return here? To stay with me?" he asked gruffly. "But for now?"

"For now it is best that I return, just as you wanted me to do earlier."

His mouth snapped shut. He regretted wanting her to leave, especially now that he had enjoyed a little taste of her intoxicating presence.

"And return to the Vicomte de Chagny?" he challenged.

Christine sighed. "Return to rehearsals before Madame skins me alive."

"When will you return?"

"Meet me in the chapel tonight after the performance."

"The chapel?"

"I will pretend to mourn my father in such a way that no one will dare to enter. Then we may speak."

"Speak?"

Christine exhaled, her disgust masked by a chuckle. "If you merely wanted a woman who would lie on her back then you should have haunted a different chorus girl."


	5. Friendship Flower

Chapter 5

The return up the five floors seemed far longer than they had when Erik and Christine descended. Christine turned to Erik once they reached the last basement and said it would be best if they avoided walking through the mirror at all cost. Given her absence she had no doubt that someone would be waiting for her in her room.

"Now that I know you are a respectable gentleman," she said, squeezing his arm tighter. "And because I am a respectable gentlewoman, you shall alert me of your presence whenever you come to my mirror. That way I can be certain that I am in proper attire."

He looked away briefly, coughing from the fumes of his torch before he nodded.

Christine's brow furrowed. "Have you watched me dress before?"

"Of course not," he answered quickly. "That's absolutely lecherous. It's insulting that you would dare insinuate such a thing."

Christine paused, feeling a drop of water fall on the top of her head. She winced as the cold saturated her hair and hit her scalp before she moved and stood before him, blocking his path.

He glanced over her shoulder before his eyes settled on her face. "Just what are you doing, Mademoiselle?"

"You have watched me in private moments, haven't you?"

Erik looked terribly uncomfortable in the torchlight. "There may have been one or two nights when I arrived for your lessons a few moments early, but once I saw that you were not…decent…I turned away and allowed you your privacy, just as a gentleman would do for a respectable gentlewoman."

Christine studied him closely, noticing how nervous he appeared. With a shake of her head she continued down the hall. "Well, good. Because, kindly monsieur, I would find it simply dreadful if my angel were a man who could not be trusted."

She flashed him a smile over her shoulder and he nodded, his expression stern yet thoughtful. Though he said nothing more of the matter, Christine was fairly certain that he would be careful—or at least careful not to be caught.

"Where shall I enter unnoticed?" Christine asked, her pace slowing as she realized she had no idea where she was heading.

"There's an entrance above the stage."

"Above the stage? Monsieur, if the stagehands—"

"At this hour? They're all drunkards. None of them have left bed—or the floor where they fell—just yet."

"Perhaps not. The stage it is, then."

For a while they walked in silence until Erik found the doorway and unhooked the latch. He set the torch into a crude iron torch holder before she handed him back his cloak.

"I will remember the way," she assured him.

Erik kept the door shut and looked her over, the anguish in his eyes consuming his gaze. Christine looked at him and knew what he thought. He assumed she wouldn't return as she had promised.

"Do you trust me?" she whispered, hearing muffled voices down the hall.

"Not at all," he answered.

"Then what happens?" she asked, stepping closer, so close she could feel him breathing heavy on her face.

He reached for her, gingerly running his fingers down her back. "I don't know, Mademoiselle Daae."

"Will you force me to join you? Will you steal me from my dressing room? Or worse—from the stage, before the crowd?" she asked, her forehead pressed against his arm.

His hand stopped caressing her and he didn't answer. Christine felt his chest move and heard him inhale deeply. His body tensed, his breath hitching in his throat.

"The chapel," she whispered before she disappeared through the door and skittered down the steps, unnoticed for the moment. She glanced back once and saw that Erik did not follow her. Even if she couldn't see him she could feel him, a strong life force, and an omnipresent spirit that she had always loved and respected but never feared.

"I will sing for you," she said, closing her eyes. "For you, my Angel of Music."

-o-

Christine entered her dressing room and found Raoul sitting in a chair reading. He sprang up the moment he saw her, his expression turning from anxiety, to relief, to anger and back to relief.

"My God," he said. "What happened to you?"

"I'm fine. I was preoccupied." She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose at the overwhelming scent of roses.

"Your hair…you look terrible."

Christine glanced in her mirror and grimaced at her reflection. Her hair looked fit for rats to nest. "A good brushing and I will be fine."

"I came to your door last night just as I promised. There was a man's voice."

Christine blushed. "Oh. Yes."

"The door was locked. Did you lock it once I left? Who was that man? It doesn't appear that anything was stolen, which was the managers' concern."

"Raoul, there's something I should tell you."

He grabbed her arm and examined it thoroughly before lifting her chin and looking at her neck. "Did he hurt you? I'll kill any bastard who harms you, Christine. Did you see what he looked like?"

"There's nothing to be concerned over, Raoul."

"Of course there is," he said, gripping her arms. "You've been so abused that you don't know which way is up. That's it, isn't it? My God, what sort of monsters roam this world?"

"That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

Raoul sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I've been worried sick about you all night. Surely you understand how important you are to me, don't you, Christine?"

This was it. The moment she would ruin her affection for Raoul, end their childhood romance once and for all. She had loved him like a sweetheart but they were older now, different. He had gone on to become the Vicomte de Chagny and she? Her title had been that of an orphan.

Christine placed her hand on his cheek. "You have always been so caring toward me, Raoul. Such a wonderful, gentle, special man in my life."

He beamed proudly and nodded. "I would do anything for you, Christine. Anything in the world for you."

"You're like the older brother I've never had."

And there it was: the dagger concealed in her cloak that wrenched through his body and impaled his heart.

At first he stood speechless, his mind undoubtedly repeating her words, playing her sentence backwards and forward, turning it over, dissecting it and hoping beyond all hope that she hadn't said what she had clearly said.

"When we were younger…Christine?"

She nodded. "It was fun, wasn't it? Those days we spent playing by the sea."

"It was."

"Have you ever returned there? To the old house?"

"I have," he muttered under his breath. "There's a young woman there that my brother would like me to see."

"Beautiful?" Christine asked.

He smiled. "She is. But I'm in Paris and she's…"

"Invite her to the theater. You're a patron and most certainly you have your own box. Why don't you invite her? It would be lovely, don't you think?"

Raoul hesitated a moment, the longing in his eyes slowly fading as he came to accept Christine's words. He ran his finger along her cheek.

"You've changed," he said.

Christine kissed him once on the cheek and patted his shoulder.

"Little Lotte," she sighed. "We've outgrown those nights in the attic, haven't we?"

"I was hoping we could rekindle those feelings."

"Oh, Raoul, I should have told you after the performance but I was far too excited, what with all the applause, the flowers, the well-wishers. That man you heard here in this room, he's…well…you understand, don't you, Raoul?"

There was nothing for him to say, though Christine saw a hundred different thoughts pass through his eyes.

"If this is what you want…I'm happy for you," he said, his voice lacking sincerity. "But you understand how people will speak of you if they find out you've been with this man?"

Christine nodded, realizing Raoul had the impression that something had happened. Now that she had been missing she would need to explain her absence and she hadn't quite thought that far ahead.

"You're correct. But I will think of something. You won't say anything dreadful about me will you, Raoul? Surely you believe me when I say that it was all innocent?" she asked, batting her eyelashes.

"Well, um, yes, of course I believe you, but you best think fast, Christine. Madame Giry has been scouring the opera house for you."

Christine bit her lip. "Oh my," she whispered.


	6. Rosy from Wine

Chapter 6

Erik stumbled upon Ann Giry by accident while attempting to steal a bottle of wine from the wine cellar.

Over the years he had enjoyed the best wines from France, but most of it—per his threats to management—was delivered to the back of the opera house in barrels.

"Barrels, barrels, any barrels to sell?" he sang to himself as he made his way to the wine cellar. The meeting in chapel would require a bottle of wine. Fermin, the little rat, would have something worthy of the pending evening.

The moment he walked into the small confines Madame Giry yelped in surprise. She cleared her throat and attempted to replace the bottle in her hands, but it slipped and crashed to the floor.

With a hiccup she crossed her arms and pretended to merely browse.

"Your ballet choreography must be simply ravishing," Erik said as he closed the door.

Ann stood stiffly for a moment before she gave up on her demure appearance and rolled her eyes. "It would be easier to teach cows to float across the stage! You have no earthly idea!"

"I've seen," he replied as he browsed through the opposite end of the cellar.

"By now I imagine you've heard," Ann said quite casually.

Erik paused. They were discussing Christine, he knew, and though she hadn't said it yet he knew she was waiting for him to divulge as to where the young soprano was hidden.

"Heard what?" he asked casually.

"I will clobber you over the head with a wine bottle if you refuse to answer me."

"Threats, Madame, only work when you're holding your cane above the head of one of your little dancing cows."

With that, she struck him in the knee with her cane.

"Damn it," he groaned, doubling over. "My God, woman. What in the hell is wrong with you?"

Madame tapped her cane on the stone floor. "I could have aimed higher. Then what would you do with that poor, innocent flower?"

"Pardon me?"

"Christine!" she howled.

"She returned to her room," he said as he managed to stand upright again. "As unsullied as when she first disappeared."

Ann looked at him skeptically. "You locked her in her room and you mean to tell me that nothing…unholy…took place?"

"She's no worse for wear," Erik replied, selecting a bottle of 1865. "You may ask her if you wish."

His words seemed to surprise Madame Giry. "I will do so, Monsieur, and I expect her to tell me all."

"Fine."

"Good."

Erik turned to leave but heard Madame tap her cane on the floor again. He turned and waited for her to speak again.

"The Vicomte de Chagny was in your box. He was not informed that the box is normally occupied."

"I know," Erik said before he turned again.

That was a matter for later. Erik's only concern was the chapel meeting.

-o-

"Oh my God! She's here!" Meg shrieked the moment she saw Christine walk from her room with the Vicomte de Chagny at her heels. Meg gave Raoul a curious look to which he shook his head.

"Are you injured? Were you abducted?" her voice lowered. "Were you…molested?"

"No, no and no," Christine said, marching past her longtime friend. "I must find Madame."

"Oh, that is not wise," Meg said as she skittered after Christine.

Raoul continued to follow them, Christine noticed, but she paid no mind to him.

"Why not?"

"She's in the cellar," Meg whispered loudly.

Christine's pace slowed. "Ah, I see."

"What's in the cellar?" Raoul asked.

Christine ignored his question, but Meg, who had thought the Vicomte was rather handsome from the moment she met him batted her eyes. "Why, the wine, of course!"

Raoul nodded. "Is that where she goes to concentrate before the performance?"

"Naturally," Christine said, rolling her eyes when she turned away.

It was also where couples went to spend time alone, where some of the dancers went to cry when they were pushed to the limit by Madame, where Carlotta went when she was having a tragic moment and where Madame Giry went when she just couldn't bear to see her pink-legged dancers stomp rather than gracefully pitter patter across the stage. The wine cellar had become a sort of second lounge.

"Then Meg, please tell her I have returned," Christine begged. "I must rest."

"You were molested, weren't you?" Meg said, wide-eyed with horror. She squeezed Christine's hands tightly. "Was it…magical?"

Their conversation ended with a hearty thump of Madame's cane on the floor. "Meg! To rehearsal, Vicomte to…somewhere else. Christine, come with me."

Christine carefully stepped forward, making certain that Madame Giry wasn't inebriated before she stepped toward the cane.

Once they were in Madame's apartment Christine heard her ballet teacher sigh as she studied the pictures on her dresser. "Well?"

Christine cocked her head to the side. "Pardon me?"

"Your music teacher has paid you a visit, no?"

"Oh. Yes."

Madame grunted. "Yes."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Christine raised her hand.

"What, my dear?"

"How did you know?"

Madame glanced at Christine. "Your hair is a mess."

Christine felt herself shrink, though truthfully she had no idea how the condition of her luxurious curls had anything to do with her whereabouts.

"You knew that my Angel of Music visited me because…my hair is a mess?"

Madame shrugged. "Well, didn't he?"

"Yes." Christine hesitated, wondering if Madame Giry were attempting to trick her. "He came to me, my Angel of Music."

Madame grunted again. "Of course I knew. Not only because of your hair, but because I have seen him for myself."

"Really?" Christine whispered in utter astonishment. "When? How? Where?"

"Years ago. At a fair. In Paris."

"Excuse me?"

"It's not important. What is important…have you given yourself to him?"

Christine blinked innocently. "I'm not sure what you mean, Madame?"

Madame's eyes narrowed, searching Christine's face. "Hmm. Yes, you were very young when your father died. I suppose you don't know much about the world, given that you were such an innocent orphan. After all, with all that time spent on your own I highly doubt you ever wondered about the workings of a man's body, the difference in his loins compared to yours. You're so naïve and innocent, much like I was at your age when I was just a ballerina training for the stage. Long before Meg was born, mind you, long before I knew what it felt like to have fire raging through my veins when a man…"

Christine wrinkled her nose.

Madame sadly shook her head. "Well, my dear, there is an hour before the curtain rises. Let me tell you everything…"


	7. Struggling to Grow

Chapter 7

Due to Christine's disappearance, La Carlotta once again resumed her roll as the resident diva of the Opera Populaire. Christine returned to her position as a chorus girl, which suited her fine. She much preferred her slave girl costume to the giant hoop skirt and sparkly gems that did nothing but tangle in her hair.

Throughout the performance she felt Erik watching her every move—regardless of whether or not she was on the stage. By intermission she was filled with jittery anticipation, and since she wasn't onstage until the ballet in act two she decided to sneak away to the chapel and hope that her Angel of Music would see her tiptoe through the corridors and join her. Act one was fairly short, however La Carlotta stretched her performance, forcing the orchestra to improvise so that she could bask a little longer in the limelight.

It was the only time Christine was grateful to have Carlotta on stage.

Entering the chapel unnoticed, she pinched her cheeks and took a deep breath. It was good to have a moment alone. The dormitories were always crowded, the dressing rooms always swarming with dancers and their admirers. For years Christine thought of the chapel as he own personal solace. Even when she wasn't in the chapel alone it brought her a sense of peace.

As she sat by the stained glass window she knew she wasn't alone.

"Are you proud of me this evening?" she asked.

"You haven't sung a note," Erik answered.

His deep voice still startled her, and when Christine turned she found him dressed in black from head to toe—including his mask.

"You look rather morbid," she commented, frowning at him.

Erik made no reply. His gaze was trained on the image of a handsome angel depicted on the chapel wall.

"We cannot all be golden halos and brilliant white robes," he muttered.

Christine's brow furrowed. "I suppose not, but then perhaps we shouldn't always be so sullen and downtrodden."

Erik turned his attention to Christine, appearing thoughtful. "When one has had no joy in ones life it is difficult to appear contented—mostly because one has only known the sullen, retched stench of loneliness, the putrid, bitter truth of being downtrodden and an outcast from the rest of the world."

"That's…poignant," she responded, catching her sardonic tone far too late.

Her answer enraged him. Christine held her breath when she saw the fire in his eyes, the burning green she witnessed the night before when she removed his mask.

"Don't mock me," he said between his teeth.

"It could be worse," she said under her breath.

Erik stalked toward her. "Excuse me?"

Christine took a deep breath, summoning all of her strength. "I said it could be worse."

"How?" he demanded, towering over her.

For one brief moment Christine's ideas abandoned her. She stared up at Erik's face, her eyes trained on his. She knew he was stubborn and wanted to prove her wrong, but she refused to allow him to wallow in self-pity.

Her eyes lowered, settling on his lapels.

"My, what fine tailoring, Monsieur Opera Ghost," Christine gasped. "It appears this overcoat was made to fit you precisely. How ever do you afford such luxuries?"

He was seething when he stood upright and turned his back on her. His back was rigid, his legs stiff and straight. Both of his hands were balled into fists, and when he whirled around to face her, Christine sprang to her feet.

"You think I'm a fortunate man?" he asked, the left side of his face crimson with anger.

"Do you think I'm a fortunate woman?" Christine countered.

Erik didn't answer. He studied her at a careful distance, the color in his face slowly returning to normal as he realized she was angrier than he.

"I came to the Opera Populaire as an orphan, Monsieur Phantom. I remember my father's death with more clarity than I remember what I ate before the performance."

Erik stood speechless as she stormed toward him.

"I can still feel his hand, cold as ice, clutching mine. I can still see the listlessness in his eyes, his pallid complexion, the way his hair was dull and thinning. Looking in his eyes, at that face was like looking at a skeleton, at a man already dead who needed nothing more than his plot and prayers. You think you are alone? You think you are the only man in the world who knows what it feels like to suffer?"

"It's different," he snapped.

"Because you suffer alone and I suffer in silence? Don't tell me that you have greater reason to be angry than I do. I will not lessen the memory of my father with petty arguments concerning my melancholy and grief."

Christine turned away from Erik and heard him exhale.

"We were both still children when we came here," he whispered.

Christine chose to ignore his comment. She would need to excuse herself soon and return to the stage, and she didn't have time to discuss his past.

"Do you still think I am quite fortunate, so blessed in my life and so ignorant of the world and the trials that it holds?"

"I never thought you were ignorant," he stated. "Beautiful, talented—"

"Do not flatter me. Tell me flatly what you think. I work in a theater after all. Don't think for a moment that I cannot take criticism," Christine said, biting off her words.

Erik hesitated for so long that Christine turned to make certain he still stood in the chapel. When she saw him standing before the mural he looked smaller than she remembered, his shoulders not so proud, his arrogance removed. Somehow it made him resemble the painting, the angel she always believed he was coming to life before her eyes.

"I think that perhaps you are more mysterious than I," he answered at last, his gaze nervously flitting through the room.

Christine smiled. "Hardly," she said. She stepped closer, earning his sullen gaze. With a sigh she shook her head, sensing his remorse. "I must return before Madame finds that I'm unaccounted for. Will you still meet me following the performance?"

His eyes widened in disbelief. "You invite me still?"

Her smile turned brighter. "The mystery has not yet been unraveled," she said as she skittered toward the door and curtsied. She doubled back and tugged at his lapels, making him bend at the knee so that she could kiss him on the cheek. "Until then, Monsieur Ghost, I do hope you enjoy my exquisite work as a ballerina this evening."

"Before the end of the season you _will_ be in the lead," he said as he watched her bolt out the door.


	8. Rose Blush

Note: Slightly suggestive chapter.

Chapter 8

Carlotta was still on stage when the audience began filing out. She was knee-deep in roses, bowing and attempting to appear humble while the rest of the cast stood off-stage and waited for her moment of orgasmic self-appreciation to come to an end.

There was no one to see Christine sneak away to the lounge (pirouettes always seemed to tangle her hair) and then to the chapel. She had a feeling no one would care even if they did see her.

La Carlotta's entourage groveled, awaiting commands from their precious diva. Meg and the rest of the ballerinas were already half-naked en route to the dressing room, while the actors and actresses were fighting over bottles stolen from the cellar. Ann Giry had her own hiding place to disappear to for a while—following a disaster beyond imagination that involved livestock, two ballerinas and the stage.

That was the first thing Christine wanted to discuss when she walked into the chapel and sat with a heavy sigh, waiting for Erik to arrive.

How could he be late, she wondered? He didn't need to remove layers of makeup, wiggle out of uncomfortable costumes, change his shoes or powder his nose. He merely had to walk from his box to the chapel.

A little twinge of fear soon blossomed, bursting into her belly. What if someone had seen him? What if she had him so flustered, so beside himself that he couldn't think? What if he forgot the world around him as his thoughts were consumed only by his lovely little songbird? What if he was blinded by her memory and walked—in a daze—through the crowd.

Oh, this was dreadful!

"When did I become so full of myself?" Christine whispered, slapping her cheek to right herself.

Just then Erik arrived, muttering to himself as he slammed the door. The moment he saw Christine sitting by the stained glass window he stood a little straighter.

"I thought you would arrive before I did," Christine said.

Erik cleared his throat. "My apologies. I didn't make it to my box after the intermission."

"Then you missed the incident?"

Erik's eyes narrowed. "There was no incident."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there was?"

Erik's lips parted. "Well, I had nothing to do with it. If La Carlotta croaked like a toad it's because she doesn't take care of her voice."

"Wh—what are you talking about?"

"Excuse me?"

"I was referring to the incident with the horse. What are you referring to?"

Erik paused. "Why don't you tell me what happened with the horse? Are you prepared, Mademoiselle Christine?"

Christine blinked. "For what, may I ask?" They hadn't discussed leaving…had they?

Erik hesitated. "Did you wish to remain in the chapel?"

Christine leaned forward to tie her ballet shoe. Her forethought extended only to the meeting place and not to whether or not they would stay in the chapel or leave. All she knew for certain was that she was starving.

"Did you have other plans for me this evening?" she asked as she checked her other shoe. "Quiet honestly, my head has simply been throbbing all night long. Perhaps I should lie down for a while with a damp rag over my head. Or a bath would be wonderful." She sighed and shrugged. "Or dinner. Yes, most definitely dinner. Do you know what I've had a taste for?"

Erik made no reply, and when she glanced up he quickly met her eye.

"Monsieur?"

Erik swallowed visibly, his gaze faltering. The left side of his face reddened slightly, and Christine took note of the change in his appearance—especially when he continued to stare at her, his hands clasped before him.

"Monsieur?" Christine questioned a third time. She glanced down and saw that her neckline was distracting him as she bent forward to tie her shoe.

"Dinner," he recommended hoarsely. "I have a bottle of wine prepared."

"Did you want me to go down with you?"

He looked shocked. "Pardon me?"

"To your apartments," Christine clarified. "Is that where we are headed?"

It took a moment for her words to register. At last he sighed and swallowed again. "Yes. Yes, to my apartments. Down _with_ me."

Now it was Christine's turn to give him a curious look. "Are you feeling ill?"

"Not at all," he said. "I merely didn't hear you when you spoke." He offered his arm and Christine stood, accepting it. "What would you like for dinner, my dear?" he finally asked.

Christine squeezed his arm. "It's been ages since I've had a nice, plump sausage."

He stopped, his free hand grasping the wall momentarily. "Yes, of course. Now what happened with the horse?"

Christine grinned. "Well, it's really quite ridiculous."


	9. Sweet Intoxication?

Chapter 9

By the middle of dinner—filet mignon, since Erik was fresh out of sausage—Christine had Erik convinced that, indeed, livestock were inappropriate for the stage.

Erik reminded Christine that if the managers didn't allow cows on stage that La Carlotta would be sent straight to the slaughterhouse, which made Christine laugh so hard that she snorted. Strangely, she didn't realize that the wine made Erik's jests amusing—or that Erik said his jest backwards:

"If the managers didn't allow La Carlottas on the stage then cows would be sent straight to the slaughterhouse."

Eventually she figured it out, tears streaming down her red face as the wine made his words absurdly amusing.

"And they do!" Christine pointed at her plate and laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair.

Erik, who was more accustomed to wine than Christine, cleared his throat. He gave her a stern look, his concerns growing that she was imbibing far more than was healthy for a girl of her size.

"Would you please pass the wine?"

Christine promptly filled her glass and gave the bottle a rattle. She made a face of horror. "I think I drank it all."

Erik returned her face of horror with one of dread and swiftly offered her a glass of water, which she refused. Mostly because she wasn't sitting at the table anymore.

"Christine!" he shouted as he scrambled to his feet and ran after her.

She was poised on the stairs, her eyes bulging at the hundreds of candles. Erik was standing too far to see for certain, but he knew that if he were before her that her eyes would be twinkling, reflecting the dazzling light before her.

If he had the opportunity to gaze into her eyes at that very moment he would be able to see into her wonder-filled, wandering, restless soul, at the glistening delight that filled her big, brown orbs.

Or possibly the glazed stupor of a girl who had just finished three glasses of wine.

"Christine?" Erik tried again.

She tiptoed away, holding up the end of her skirt. "Pretty," she said. "Shiny. Pretty… shiny…pretty shiny. It's as though…all of the stars have rained down upon us—but they haven't! They've been caught…by you…my star catcher," she sighed. "And each one, with its opulent perfection and care-free glowing virginity bows before us, begging, pleading—no! No! They are _yearning_," she said in the most seductive tone Erik had ever heard. "These are the stars that are suspended and _yearning_ to be remembered for an eternity. Persephone would be pleased."

"Pardon me?"

"Is there more wine?" Christine slurred as she spun around and stumbled down the stairs.

"No, not at all. Not in the whole opera house."

She stuck out her bottom lip. "Pity that."

"Indeed," he grunted as Christine fell hard against his chest. She suddenly felt twice her weight as he escorted her into his dining room.

"You should eat more," he suggested.

Christine blew air past her lips. Erik set her on her feet and held onto her arms, allowing her to test her legs before releasing her.

"It's quite warm," Christine commented as she fanned her face and neck. She turned, clinging to Erik's neck with her forehead pressed against his shoulder. She gently pinched his neck through his cravat, sighing and giggling in intoxicated bliss.

It would all be so simple to sweep her into his arms, carry her to bed and encourage her affection. Already she purred, rubbing her hand down to his chest. Every night of lying alone, of staring at a ceiling and knowing that hundreds of people walked and talked and lived above him—would come to an end. He would finally feel a sense of normality in his life plagued with solitude.

"Good evening," she whispered, looking into his face.

Swallowing hard, Erik brushed her hair away from her face. She grinned, her heavy-lidded gaze sweeping from his face down to his chest.

He waited for her to meet his eye again before he took her by the hand. "Come with me," he said.

"Your voice," she said as she clasped his hand. "It trembles."

Erik made no reply. He stood before her, walking backwards so that he could watch her walk. Though she teetered, she never stumbled, and once he had her at the bedside he knew that she would not protest anything he said or did.

She was willing to offer him everything he had always been denied.

"Lie down," Erik instructed.

Christine watched him in sleepy delight as he removed his overcoat and slung it over the bird's head. He folded his waistcoat and removed his cravat, placing both items over his coat.

With his shoes tossed aside he sat on the opposite side of the bed and leaned over to caress her face.

"Erik?"

He kissed her forehead. "Don't speak."

For a moment she obeyed, her eyes closing to his soothing touch.

"I feel very unusual," she confessed.

Erik kissed her forehead again. "You'll be better in the morning," he whispered before he sat up and left her to rest, lowering the curtain around her.


	10. Not the Rosy Hour

_A/N Absinthe Readers from Gabrinaland: There was a bit ofa change to this chapter toward the middle. You may want to reread it._

_Thanks to all of you for your helpful and positive reviews. This is a lot of fun. Glad you think so too!_

_Gabrina (Promise I won't post many A/N)_

Chapter 10

"You lied," Christine groaned as she squirmed in bed.

The room was dark, as most of the candles had either died or been blown out, and since Christine didn't know her way around she let out a gurgling cry for help.

Candleholders crashed to the stone flooring, garnering Christine's attention at the foot of the bed. Erik cursed under his breath and excused himself for his language.

"How do you feel?" Erik asked, his voice hoarse from sleep.

"Like there's a rock in my stomach," she said into her pillow. She spit out a strand of her hair. "What did you do to me?"

"Nothing," Erik answered quickly. He towered over the end of the bed, though it was too dark for Christine to see his features. All she could see for certain was the mask gleaming white against the darkness. "I never touched you, not once. I swear it."

Christine closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. "That isn't what I meant," she said at last. "I meant to ask why I feel so positively dreadful."

Match light sparked in Erik's hand as he lit a candle and sat at the end of the bed. "You had too much wine to drink."

She grunted, wondering what would become of said rock, which felt as though it were leaning toward betrayal in her gut.

"Monsieur Opera Ghost," Christine said, keeping her voice low, which seemed to quell the sick feeling churning through her.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Daae?"

As much as she appreciated hiswords, Christine couldn't possibly bring herself to do much more than weakly smile. She met Erik's eye and saw the concern in his gaze.

"Have you stayed awake all night?"

"Not all night," he confessed. "I dozed a while when you were sleeping. Why do you ask, Christine?"

She was quiet a moment, mulling over his words. "But you wore your mask all night?"

Erik hesitated before he slowly nodded. "I always wear it."

"Even when you're alone?"

"No one comes down here," he muttered. His eyes met hers, the candle catching the glassiness of his gaze."I am always...without bother."

"But on the street? When you're out in public?"

"There is no one else I see," he snapped. "But I am never without it." His gaze faltered before he turned away and stared into the darkness. "You shouldn't speak when you're feeling ill. It will upset…your stomach."

Christine stayed quiet for a moment as she considered the sadness in his eyes that matched his words. He mumbled under his breath that he would retrieve a glass of water for her before he lit another candle and walked away.

With a frown, Christine lowered her eyes. "My God. What kind of life have you known?"

-o-

Erik returned to Christine's bedside only after he walked the length of his apartment and back. He wanted to control his anger, as he recalled how things had gone the night he had lost his temper.

It could have been worse, he thought, as he held her cup of water and stared at his hands. He could sketch and create music, but in his eyes, his hands served no purpose. He lived from afar, he experienced from afar and he still loved from afar. He was not man enough to take what he wanted.

"Useless," he said under his breath. "Fear will never turn to love. It will only turn to bitterness." His eyes focused on the curtained doorway where Christine was waiting for him to return. A shudder rattled through him. "She will betray me in the end."

He found his life's work, the opera that mocked his existence, and glared at the gold leaf title: Don Juan Triumphant. Eyes cast down, he left it where it lay in a disorganized pile with dozens of other unfinished works. He was certain that he would die before it was ever completed--and even if he did finish it before he died, no one would ever hear it played. What was he but an unknown composer? Any fool with pen and paper could jot down a few notes here and there. He was not so outstanding, so worthy of the stage.

When Erik lifted the curtain he thought Christine had fallen asleep again. He started to leave the cup by the bed, but her eyes flickered open and she weakly smiled.

"My head is pounding," she mumbled. "And I think my stomach wants to come out of my body."

"Ah, yes, that is expected."

"That doesn't make me feel at all better."

"No, I didn't think it would. I apologize, my dearest, there is nothing I can do for you, I'm afraid. Have some water. It may help you're headache."

"How did you know I had a headache?"

Erik shrugged. "You will be careful with wine next time."

Christine took the cup from his hand and grunted. "Next time I will leave it in the bottle."

"A wise decision," Erik replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

While she sipped her water she stared up at him and then sighed. "I apologize."

Erik stared at her, confused by her words. "You-you apologize to me?"

"For my unladylike behavior," she frowned. "I promise I will never end up like this again." She paused and held up the covers. "Though I suppose to you that where I ended up is no great tragedy."

"I left you in peace," he said under his breath. "Just as you requested. I do respect and honor you enough to listen to you, Christine, despite what you think of me."

Christine reached up and grasped his fingers. "You have no idea what I think of you."

Erik swallowed and looked away, nodding barely enough for her to notice.

Christine's grasp tightened. "You are still my angel. I would expect nothing less from you."

He gave a closed-lip smile, finding comfort in her words and visage. He wanted to be a good person to her, a gentleman despite haunting her as a deceptive angel. Everything seemed right at lastuntil Christine gasped.

"Where are my stockings?"

Erik froze, his jaw dropping in horror. "I—I don't know."

Christine's eyes widened. "Did I wear stockings?"

"I don't recall."

"Me neither. I don't believe I did, however if you happen to find a pair of stockings swear to me that you won't toss them in the refuse."

"You have my word, Christine."

Her face turned green and Erik knew exactly what was happening. "Oh my," she said before she dashed from the bed, her hand covering her mouth.

"Not in the lake!" Erik yelled as he ran after her, coming to her aid in time to do nothing more than hold back her hair.


	11. Soiled

Chapter 11

"Madame Giry will be worried. You should return to your room soon," Erik warned once Christine was feeling better. He had managed to find her a more comfortable gown while she returned to bed and slept off a headache.

"She knows where I am," Christine retorted. She shook the dress out, hoping to remove some of the wrinkles it had acquired while sitting in storage. "Where did you say you found this?"

"In a trunk," Erik replied, failing to mention that it was in one of La Carlotta's trunks. "What did Madame say when you informed her of where you would be this evening?"

"She gave me the next three performances off so that I could accompany you to supper. She said you would pay my meager salary. That is very kind of you."

That was also the first Erik had heard of his kindness. He secretly found that information a bit smarmy but decided against voicing his opinion.

Christine motioned for him to turn around while she changed. He did as she asked and pursed his lips when he noticed that one of the mirrors was partially uncovered.

"I beg your pardon, Christine," he started.

"Madame and I had a very long conversation before the performance," Christine said as she began to unbutton her dress.

It was far too difficult to remain a gentleman. Erik stepped forward…toward the mirror. "Christine—"

"I must say it was quite an uncomfortable conversation—especially since Madame was a little…what's the word? Snockered?"

She turned around, giving Erik a clear view of her long, slender back. Seeing her reflection made his throat go dry and his heart pound. As much as he knew he should inform her of the situation or look away, he couldn't stop himself.

"If there is one thing I never want to hear from Madame Giry again it's everything from our conversation. Birds and bees, indeed! Why do they refer to it as birds and bees, flora and fauna? We didn't talk about any of that! She did, however, show me a very dirty, sinful, lecherous…disgusting book. I had no idea Madame knew such, well, dirty, sinful, lecherous and disgusting things. Quite frankly I was appalled, though I do admit that the drawings were quite well-done. Not that I paid much heed…"

Oh, how she compounded the situation. His lust for her was suddenly growing painful and apparent.

"You know, after a while I stopped listening to what she said and counted how many times she said certain words. If I had a franc for every time she said hard and thick, Monsieur, I would be very wealthy, indeed. I don't know what that had to do with birds and bees, but I suppose she just enjoys talking about her dead husband. He was a builder, I think. She kept talking and talking about nailing and wood. Or was he a tailor? She did mention something about a pr—"

"Christine," Erik shouted hoarsely.

Christine jumped as she shimmed into her dress. "You may turn around."

Erik waited several moments, focusing his thoughts on things like mud and roaches before he felt he could face her. The moment he turned he saw Christine's eyes drop from his face to his belt. With a gasp, she covered her mouth and turned away.

"We should discuss something less titillating," she said under her breath as she nervously smoothed her dress.

Erik turned away and walked out of the bedchamber. "I have much work to do," he mumbled. "You should return at least briefly so that no one suspects foul play."

Christine laughed to herself. "Foul play? On a dancer? Who would be heartbroken over that?"

"You're more than a dancer," he said over his shoulder.

Christine clasped her hands before her and lingered near the stairs. "What work do you need to finish?"

"My music," Erik answered. He turned to face her again and studied her face. "You knew this."

She shrugged and glanced around. "I was merely making conversation."

With a curt nod Erik studied the stone floor, unsure of what to say to keep the conversation moving. People didn't speak to him. Long ago they shrieked or laughed, but it had been many years since he spoke to anyone face-to-face.

"Are you working on your opera still?"

Erik turned at the sound of her voice again and slowly nodded. "I've mentioned it before?"

She grinned. "I've pried information from you on occasion."

Erik grunted and turned away again. "An angel with hundreds of other angels gathered around…"

"In a vast Cathedral," Christine said, her voice low. "Where the sound would carry…"

"So that everyone could hear the voice you heard."

Christine wiped her eyes. "You remembered?"

He turned toward her and half-smiled. "So I did." With a deep breath he studied her. "You've always had such a voracious imagination, Chritine."

He wondered if it made her more disappointed when she finally discovered he was not what she first thought—and not worthy of her admiration.

"May I hear something you wrote?"

Erik stiffened. "I'm afraid it's not quite worthy of an audience of hundreds, Christine."

She stepped forward and glanced around, her eyes settling on the leather folder marked _Don Juan Triumphant._

"What about an audience of one?"


	12. Persistent Petal

NDBRs: There were a few changes throughout. I added some GL references.

Chapter 12

Erik stared at the folder in Christine's grasp and started to shake his head.

"No, and never ask of it again. This was not written to go with the words of Don Da Ponte. I am no Mozart and this is no _Don _Giovanni."

"Why cannot I decide?"

"Because I intend to take it to my coffin. Understood?"

Christine cocked her head to the side. "Must you be so dreadfully morbid?"

"Luckily for you I am merciful. This is music that would make you lose your fresh coloring. You would return to Paris and no one would recognize you."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind," he said, clearly exasperated. "I have made my decision, Christine. I shall take it to my grave and never wake again," he said quite stubbornly. Christine thought he was being overly dramatic.

"Then perhaps you should work at it as little as possible."

"I work on it for fifteen nights and days, never resting, never breathing. Then sometimes I don't work on it for years. It's nothing worthy of consideration. Frankly, it's a disaster."

She pressed the folder to her chest and walked toward him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She appreciated his artistic modesty but didn't want him to shy away from her.

Christine knew he was tremendously talented, and as she glanced around his apartments and saw the multitude of musical works, scattered watercolors and sketches, she thought it was a tremendous shame for someone with such knowledge and love of the arts to let it simply exist unknown. Ironic, she thought, that there was genius hiding below the opera house. Most certainly the managers would have been beside themselves to have exclusive access to a talented composer.

Before her ideas got ahead of her, Christine reminded herself that she hadn't heard anything from him just yet, but she had no doubt that she would.

-o-

"One song."

"No," Erik replied firmly.

"Please?"

"No."

"Please, Monsieur Erik."

"Christine—"

She frowned, her lip protruding in a heartbreaking pout. Erik shook his head again.

"Half a song," she tried.

Erik exhaled. "Half a song? That's ridiculous."

She smiled. "Then the whole song."

Speaking with her felt like ramming his head into the wall again and again and expecting a different result.

"They're still rough drafts," he exhaled. "It's hardly a decent use of time."

"Oh, come now. There must be something finished."

"My answer is no, you foolish, persistant child. Do not ask again. It makes me awfully upset when you disobey."

"What would you rather do?" Christine asked, her voice dripping with innocence. "Within reason, of course."

Erik exhaled and muttered to himself. He turned away and stormed down the stairs, wondering if she were doing nothing more than tormenting him. She wasn't spiteful, he reminded himself, but he wasn't at all comfortable with her presence. Accustomed to either stealing or threatening others for what he wanted, Erik found he could do neither.

It was slowly leading to his demise.

"Erik—"

"One song," he growled.

Christine skittered after him and placed the folder gently on the organ bench, no doubt choosing to ignore his palpable frustration. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

"May I sit beside you? Or should I sit elsewhere? Or should I stand?"

A chuckle escaped his lips, which seemed to surprise Erik more than Christine. He extended his hand to Christine.

"Sit with me," he said.

"Of course," Christine smiled. She plopped down next to him and straightened her skirt, seemingly unaware of what her presence did to him. "What is _Don Juan Triumphant_ about?"

Erik browsed through several sheets of paper before he grunted. "It's changed over the years."

"How long have you been working on it? Truly?"

"Forever," he muttered.

"You exaggerate."

"You don't believe me?"

Christine shook her head. "I am not the magician. Tell me honestly."

He stared at her a moment, knowing full well what she meant. "Truly forever--or for as long as I care to remember." He grunted again. "Some days it truly feels that way."

Christine grinned and Erik's shoulders relax as he rummaged through the folder and selected several sheets. He couldn't remember how old he had been when the songs began circulating through his head day and night. Thirteen or fourteen, he guessed, as he recalled his inspiration being his sexual awareness.

The title and story had changed frequently in his youth. He honed his skills, drawing from Verdi and Bizet and Mozart. In secret he attended performances and learned first-hand what worked and what didn't, keeping all he had seen and heard in mind as he ventured to his lakeside apartment, took up pen and paper, and refused to sleep until he was certain that he was looking at a masterpiece.

After careful consideration most of those masterpieces were committed to flame. Alone and angry, he cursed himself and his useless occupation.

By the time he turned twenty he was cynical and certain that he would die writing this damned opera. In fifty, sixty, one hundred years after he died someone would find it and laugh at the absurdity of a young, heart-sick man.

"But you enjoy writing it, don't you?" Christine asked.

It was all he had. Erik nodded blankly. "It's practice."

The opera mocked him, evolving slowly into its own entity, exuding sensuality, which he very much desired, and mystery, which he encompassed, but also triumph—and that was the great irony of all. Triumph was the lock missing a key. It was the barrier that separated him from staving his mystery and experiencing sensuality and affection.

He placed the music into two piles, one of which he handed to Christine.

"Learn this," he said, staring into her eyes. "I'll play it for you once. The second time you will sing for me."

His assertion caught her by surprise, which he immediately saw in her eyes. Erik felt a sense of satisfaction in catching her unaware.

"Stand," he commanded.

Christine did as she was told and began rifling through the paperwork. Her eyes bulged, her face flushing as she skimmed through the music.

With great urgency, she grabbed his wrist. "This is a duet," she said. "Oh, Monsieur, you must sing with me."

He started to protest, but Christine shook her head.

"It would be incomplete without us singing together."

And just like that the tables were turned once again.


	13. Rose with Dew

A/N I will be on vacation starting Saturday and will not have an update until probably next Thursday. Thanks for your understanding!

Chapter 13

Strange, delightful, curious feelings filled Christine's stomach following their duet. Despite her enjoyment, she felt as though something were very wrong. It didn't seem humanly possible to have such joy and not have it be a sin. Most certainly such titillation would be punished.

But, since it would be impossible for lightning to strike her while standing below the opera house, Christine forgot her fears and stared into Erik's eyes, her bosom heaving appropriately.

"You hated it," Erik said miserably once Christine stood with a smile etched on her face and her eyes glassy and unwilling to blink.

"Not at all," she said, partially dazed, her emotions still swelling. "It was very…alluring."

"Alluring?"

Christine paused. Was that the correct word?

"How so?" Erik questioned.

"Invigorating?" she tried.

"Like rain?"

Christine blushed. "Not quite that wet, but yes."

"Excuse me?"

"What did you say?" Christine countered.

Erik stared at her briefly, obviously confused. "Never mind. You found my opera alluring and invigorating?"

"And arousing," Christine added. "The way it touched my very soul and spoke to me in this powerful, feral, masculine way that defies definition."

Erik looked a little concerned, but he nodded and mulled over her answer. The visible side of his face flushed. "You find me arousing?"

"Your opera," Christine corrected. She turned away and coughed, uncertain of exactly what she found arousing and invigorating.

"Yes." Erik nodded, pleased nonetheless. "That's what I said."

Christine decided to let his comment slide. She smiled and clasped her hands. "It fills me with such joy and…and I don't know! I've never felt anything like it before. It's as though this music about this man who is someone but not the person he pretends to be somehow speaks to me. It's intriguing, alluring, invigorating, arousing, everything and more. And I want more."

Again he stared at her. "You want…more?"

"To sing. Oh, Monsieur Erik! You must allow me to sing more!"

Rubbing his left eye, Erik sat at the organ and thumbed through the papers. "I have an aria here and…"

"No, no, I can't sing an aria. We need to sing together," Christine said meekly, the curious feelings in her belly lingering still, needing more than to be merely brushed aside and forgotten. "We should sing together and you should stand so that we may properly act out the opera."

Christine saw the discomfort in his eyes as he looked her over.

"I'm not an actor. I write and play, nothing more."

"But we are alone," she pressed.

Erik nodded slowly. "You should read the script before you commit to such things."

And so Christine read the script and shuffled through the drawings Erik created for his opera. Her heart was beating wildly at all of the stroking and twirling and the dancers hopping about. It was indeed triumphant!

"I'm ready," she said after she finished reading several pages.

She glanced up and saw that Erik had wandered into the bedchamber. He emerged at the sound of her voice looking wary, his lips drawn tight and his eyes darting around.

"This would be glorious with the costumes," she said. "Your imagination is riveting!"

"You are a woman of many adjectives tonight, my dear."

Christine giggled. She really had no idea what he meant, but it sounded most fascinating. "You have ravished my mind with your riveting delightfulness," she said with a little growl that surprised her.

"Shall we sing once more?" Erik asked, taking his stance on the stairs.

"Indeed," Christine smiled, having him where she wanted him.

Well, almost.

-o-

Erik stood mesmerized as Christine began singing. His life's work was at last receiving the attention it had always deserved. Of course it wasn't on stage, but he had known from the beginning that it would never be viewed by a crowd. This was merely a project to consume his time rather than share with the world. No one would understand it, as it wasn't Mozart, he thought cynically.

However, Christine sang as though she understood, as though the music meant something to her. Perhaps not nearly as much as it meant to him, but it was as though she understood his passion—and Erik realized he was filled with passion.

But then something happened. She stopped.

"Why have you stopped?" he asked.

She blinked twice before she answered, "Because this is a duet."

"Yes."

"And you're not singing."

Erik's lips parted. He cleared his throat and nodded. "I apologize. I was…distracted."

"By?"

Erik shrugged. "It was nothing."

"You were distracted by nothing?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

Exhaling, Erik turned away from her. "By your voice," he said quietly. "By your talent. I hear you sing and it's as though you're someone different."

"Someone different?" Christine asked, obviously concerned.

"You're doing better than I ever imagined. It comes as second nature to you," he replied. "Unlike Carlotta."

"Well, some turkeys must be forced to warble," Christine said.

Her words made him chuckle, to which Christine laughed to herself. When Erik said nothing more, Christine walked up behind him and coughed delicately to garner his attention once more.

"I would like to sing the entire opera," she said.

Her words made him whip around. "You…you do?"

She nodded. "On stage."

His face sobered as he shook his head. "Never."

Grasping his wrist, Christine caught Erik before he turned away. "Why not?"

"It's not good enough. It will never be good enough. I would have to threaten them to ever perform it." Erik paused, thinking it over.

"Let me bring it to the managers."

"They have no taste."

Christine bit her lip. "You're correct. Well, what about Monsieur R—"

"That old goat?"

"He wouldn't give it a second thought."

Shifting her weight, Christine's eyes narrowed. "How many copies do you have?"

"Sixteen."

Her eyes bulged. "You have sixteen copies?"

Erik shrugged. He had an awful amount of time to spend alone. Out of boredom he made sixteen copies.

"May I have two copies?"

He exhaled, resisting her request. "Christine…"

"Give me two weeks to present the opera. I know I can put it on the stage."

His shoulders slumped as he turned away. "There is only so much rejection one can accept, Christine, and I believe I exceeded my limit years ago."

Her hand touched his arm. "Erik, I know your passion. I feel it in each note I sang tonight. This is you in this work, and I want to be filled with your passion."

She was doing it again in that way only Christine Daae could do to him.

"My passion," he exhaled. "Wants to fill you, Christine."

"Then allow your passion to fill me on stage before an audience."

Erik rolled his eyes before he turned to face her. "You have no idea what you're offering, do you?"

Her smile was sweet and innocent, but the twinkle in her eye was unmistakable. "Two weeks, Erik."


	14. Wilted

Chapter 14

Christine spent several more hours with Erik before she decided to return so that no one worried about her. Like a gentleman, Erik escorted her to the third basement, where they exited what he considered his world and entered the opera house.

"There's no performance tonight," Christine informed him.

"Yes, I am aware," Erik replied.

She squeezed the leather folder to her chest. "Would you consider escorting me for a pastry?" she asked. Erik heard her stomach growl. "Fresh air would be nice, don't you think?"

He hesitated. "At what hour?"

"Nine…ish?"

"Why don't I bring you a pastry and we may dine together in my apartments?"

She frowned. Or was it pouted? It was difficult to tell the difference with her.

"That defeats the purpose of going together for fresh air and a walk."

He sighed and felt more and more deflated. Once she was safely returned, Erik planned on taking a long nap.

"I helped construct this very building, Mademoiselle, I assure you that there is nothing wrong with the air."

Turning her back to him, Christine allowed her shoulders to drop in stage-worthy form. "I'm beginning to think you don't wish to be seen with me."

Erik panicked. "No, no, of course not, Christine don't be absurd I…" And then it sunk in and he shook his head at her, his face and neck burning with a sudden flash of anger. "You are quite crafty, Christine, but your antics will be noticed and go unrewarded. Know this: Your attempts at fooling me are all in vain, and I do not appreciate your mocking ways."

Christine bristled at his harsh tone. "You expect to entertain me in the confines of a basement? And this, you think, will earn my undying affection for you?"

She made him sound so incredulous that he couldn't stop himself from blanching. Keeping his voice as low and even as he could manage, he took a step forward and looked her straight in the eye.

"Is this a game to you, Christine? Is this merely an experiment to see how long you are able to torture me?"

Her expression sobered. "For as long as you've known me, have I ever taken pleasure in anything that caused others pain?"

Erik was breathing harder as they stood face-to-face. He didn't know how to answer, as with every passing moment she seemed like more and more of a mystery to him. He most certainly would have remained suspended for much longer had Christine not reached up to touch his face.

He turned swiftly away from her and her hand fell against his shoulder.

"Why do you turn away from me?" she asked, her voice filled with sincerity.

"I've asked you not to touch this mask," he said, his voice low. He watched her from the corner of his eye as they stood in the musty confines of the third basement. "And yet…I know one day you will disobey me."

While watching her sleep, Erik had played it out in his mind. He saw her reach across the table and snatch it from him. Then he imagined her removing it while he was asleep and unaware. Then lastly—the most incongruous of all—was standing on a stage before a crowd. The humiliation he felt merely thinking of the possibility made him inwardly shudder. He couldn't imagine a greater deathblow than Christine giving him false hope of finally being human.

"Then if you wish, I will swear to you that I will not attempt to take it from you." She paused, her hand squeezing his arm tighter as she continued to cling to the folder. "But I hope that one day, if you do care for me, that you will trust me."

"It's time for you to return to your room," he said as he turned his back on her. He couldn't promise her anything, as he didn't know if he would ever be able to look her in the eye without his mask.

As he stood in the hall he heard her breathing hard and knew she was waiting for him to agree.

"Christine? Do you think this corridor is dark?" he asked.

"Yes, I do," she answered meekly.

"You have no idea where I've been," he said at last. "And you don't know true darkness."

"Erik, please look at me. I want to apologize to you."

Without another word, he disappeared.


	15. Evening Rose

Chapter 15

Meg, who was well aware of Christine's absence, took it upon herself to move into Christine's room at the very end of the hall. Christine, being completely unaware of Meg's unnecessary thoughtfulness, nearly wet herself when she moped in and collapsed on her bed.

Her intentions of sulking were interrupted, however, thanks to Meg, who was sleeping in Christine's bed.

"You've returned!" Meg shrieked in her high-pitched fairy-like voice.

"You're sleeping in my bed!" Christine shrieked back.

Meg pointed her finger at Christine. "You've been ravished, haven't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Ravished!" Meg yelped, which caused the blankets beside her to wriggle. A hand—quite large, square and masculine—clamped over her mouth. It was followed by this:

"Pipe down! Your mother will hear us!"

Meg, who was talking to the blanket, replied, "My mother is deaf as a bat!"

"The expression, I think, is blind as a bat. Their hearing is quite good, I believe."

"You're not only handsome, you're brilliant!" Meg gushed. She clapped her hands and rubbed at what appeared to be the blanket's head.

"Handsome, brilliant, and hung like a horse!"

To that, Meg shrieked, but this time with laughter. "Quiet, now. Christine will hear you."

Christine, who found that she was sitting on the blanket's lap, felt its horse-like appendage and shifted to avoid it. "Meg, whom do you have in my bed?"

Meg appeared shocked. "I don't know what you're referring to."

"Whose is that voice? Why, Meg, you've a man in my room!"

"No, I don't," she said innocently.

"Yes, you do. I'm sitting on him."

Meg shoved Christine nearly clear off the bed. "Don't sit on him! He's mine! You have your own gentleman to molest you."

With a sigh of frustration, Christine stormed out of her room. If Erik didn't want to accompany her, she would find fresh air on her own as well as any scorned woman's best friend: Something sweet, hard on the outside, and filled with cream. Thinking of it made her quiver.

A pastry never sounded better.

"I walk these lonely boulevards, on the streets of broken dreams," Christine sang quietly as she dragged herself down the street. "My silhouette is the only one who walks beside me. My trivial heart's the only thing that's…oh, forget it," she muttered. She wasn't a poet or song writer. She was a soprano, a little lost sheep wandering without a herd, a little filly waiting for her stallion.

"Stupid blonde Meg," Christine said through her teeth, though she knew it wasn't Meg's fault that Erik had left without accepting her apology. It was all her fault, but there was nothing she could do to remedy the situation, as Erik would have nothing to do with her.

It was almost dark out and the wind was picking up. Rather than wandering around alone, she should have been wandering with Erik.

"Agony, misery! That can cut like a machete!" she wailed, which drew attention to her sullen form still walking aimlessly toward the smell of lard-laden goodies. Most people glared at her before continuing on their way.

Her solace was within sight, but before she could cross the street, a hand reached out and clamped onto her wrist. With a gasp, she was pulled into the alley.

"You could be easily killed on the street," her abductor snarled. "You foolish child!"

Christine froze in wide-eyed terror for several unsteady heartbeats before instinct took over and she did the only thing she could. She kicked her assailant in the shin, which made him jump. Once he was favoring his right leg, she kicked him again between the legs.

"For God's sake," the man strained, his voice sounding near tears. "Christine!"

Christine covered her mouth with both hands before she swore, apologized for having the mouth of a longshoreman, and helped Erik hobble from the darkest shadows to the end of the alley. The streetlamps provided just enough light for Christine to see Erik's pained expression.

"What are you doing?" she asked, not knowing what she could do to help him.

"I have no idea," he admitted as he took several deep breaths.

"My God, you should have revealed yourself rather than sneaking about in the dark!" Christine lectured. She placed her hands on her hips and shook her head.

"Where did you learn to kick people like that?" he asked, finally recovering from her attack.

"Madame Giry once demonstrated on Joseph Bouquet. It was quite entertaining. She asked if he wanted to assist her, his eyes twinkled and then…" She hit her palm with her fist and Erik winced. "He screamed like a cat when you step on its tail and—"

"Yes, yes, I understand," Erik snapped. He glanced around. "You were being followed, Mademoiselle."

Christine gawked at him briefly. "By a man?"

"Yes."

"Where did he go?"

Erik hesitated. "He walked away now. You're safe."

Christine was fairly certain that the only man following her was her angel, but she chose not to question him further. He had come to find her on his own accord and she had no desire to have him storm off again.

"Oh, Monsieur, did you come to protect me?" Christine asked, clasping her hands in adoration. She blinked at him and smiled, knowing that all of her time spent practicing doe-eyed innocence had finally paid off.

"Yes, of course," Erik replied. His chest puffed out a little once he realized she was gushing over his actions and thoughtfulness.

"I am so fortunate," Christine said breathlessly. "Of all the girls in the opera house, you chose to be my angel."

His expression changed, his lips turning straight and hard. "Do you mock me?" he asked between his teeth.

In the faint light, Christine saw the hurt and longing in his eyes and knew that she needed to put his fears to rest. She reached for his gloved hand and kept her eyes steady on his.

"Please walk with me," she requested. "I would like to speak with you."

"Concerning?" he asked brusquely.

"Anything you wish to tell me," she replied.

His hand gently squeezed hers. "In public?"

"Walk to the park with me," she suggested. "If only for a half-hour, then I will return to my room."

"Very well," he replied at last. With a tug, he led her onto the streets, his eyes staying ahead of them, his hand loose in hers.

He couldn't have been more distant.


	16. Nectar

In the last chapter I rearranged song lyrics from Green Day and twisted a line from the musical _Into the Woods_. Call me lacking in the creative department, but this time I'm using _Wicked_.

Chapter 16

They walked arm's length from one another, both of them staring straight ahead. Erik felt Christine's eyes on him several times, but she said nothing. Erik knew what she was waiting for: She wanted him to speak first.

Erik had no desire to speak. He wasn't sure why he had decided to follow her—or why he had made up the absurd story that someone was following her. No one was following her. In fact, no one was even near her and he knew why. She was dragging her feet and muttering to herself. She looked quite insane.

A large part of him—a quite large and swollen part of him, wanted to be closer to her, to ask her to stay with him despite all that had happened. He wanted to take the blame and kneel at her feet and do whatever she said. But another part of him—equally large and also engorged—was quite upset.

"What are these feelings, so sudden and new? I felt the moment I laid eyes on her.," Erik said to himself. "My pulse was rushing, my face was flushing…fervent as a flame…I wonder if it has a name. Yes, I think it does..."

Loathing. Unadulterated loathing.

For himself. Maybe this wasn't so different after all.

Christine stopped once they reached the park. "It's been a half-hour," she said sullenly.

Erik glanced at his pocket watch in the dark. If they turned back now and remained silent, he would never see her again. It would be far too humiliating to approach her at a later time, and since he had spirited her away once, he couldn't do it again. She would expect it the second time. And seeing how the first instance hadn't exactly gone as planned, he wasn't keen on repeating his mistakes.

Or was he?

"It's been twenty-six minutes," Erik corrected.

Christine's brow furrowed. She shifted her weight and squinted at his watch. "I remember quite distinctly that the time was…" She paused. Erik held his breath, lingering on her words. He would not argue about the time. If she wanted to leave, he would see her back and slink away, suffering as much humiliation as he could tolerate. "Oh, no, you are quite correct. It has only been twenty-six minutes. We have four minutes remaining. I apologize for my mistake."

"Then I shall sit a moment," Erik proclaimed.

Christine scuttled along and sat on the opposite end of the bench, which Erik didn't know what to make of. Was she being respectful or was she being calculative? Slumping in his seat, he stared straight ahead and decided that it would be her choice on how they spent the next 280 seconds…or, now, 255.

"Meg had a man in my bed," Christine blurted out.

How did one respond to a conversation that began like this, Erik wondered. He crossed and uncrossed his ankles, tapped his fingers together, and at last cleared his throat.

"Why?" he choked out.

Christine shrugged. "I never asked. Seems like I should have, doesn't it?"

"Indeed."

"He was hiding beneath the covers," Christine informed him.

"Perhaps you should change your bedding before you retire for the night."

"Perhaps." Christine paused and began tapping her hand against her leg. At last she turned to him and said, "Erik?"

He looked at her as well. "Yes, Christine?"

"How did you first come to live by the lake?" she asked.

With a ragged sigh, Erik sat forward and rested his forearms on his knees. "What does it matter?" he mumbled.

"It matters more than Meg and her lover," Christine offered. She paused again and scooted closer. "And it matters to me."

"Why?" he snapped.

"Because you're a human being," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And because I want to know about you."

A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Erik thought that he could manage to sit in that same spot and count every single blade of grass at the park before he would give an answer.

And then, without warning, the answer came on its own.

"There was no place left to go," he said.

Both Erik and Christine stared at one another, blinking in surprise.

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

"I had traveled the world. There was no place left to go."

"Why that particular floor?"

Erik changed her question. "Why not closer to the living?" he growled. "Why do you think?"

Christine didn't answer. She scooted closer again and placed her hands in her lap. "Don't you ever feel…lonely? It's a solitary place; I don't recall anyone ever mentioning the lake before, or a house for that matter."

Erik did feel lonely, especially once he had met Christine. Before her, days were average and uneventful. He scared the hell out of the managers and received payment, which bought him everything he needed to sustain life. This had gone on for years with little change. He lived, he allowed everyone else to live, and no one upset his balance.

Then she came along. The intricate balance was ruined forever.

"Do you enjoy living alone?" Christine asked.

Erik shook his head, having no idea how to voice his thoughts without appearing child-like. He swallowed hard and studied the ground, wishing the night were darker. More than ever, he wished for a trapdoor and an easy escape.

"Have you ever considered working for the opera house?"

A grim smile touched the corners of his lips. "The opera house works for me."

Christine nodded. "That's not quite what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" Erik countered.

He knew his harsh tone was undeserved and he regretted it immediately but made no attempt to excuse himself. He was no good at face-to-face encounters and conversation. Why didn't she understand that? Why didn't she understand him? Why was he not making sense to himself anymore?

"I thought perhaps it would be easier for you as a musician to live closer to the stage, as then you could more easily sell your work," she said, speaking rather loudly. "But, of course, that's only a suggestion from an insolent child."

"Don't make suggestions," he snapped.

This was by far the most infantile conversation he could imagine taking place in all of Paris.

"Don't tell me when I may or may not make suggestions," Christine bit back.

Fire rose up the back of his neck, his jaw set in an unmoving scowl of utter wrath. No one spoke to him with such a sharp tongue. He wouldn't have it.

"Christine," he said between his teeth. "You shouldn't dare to invite my anger. You should know my temper by now."

Her chin raised defiantly, her eyes narrowed on him. "And you should know how stubborn I am by now, Erik."

Erik rose. His legs were stiff. Other parts of him that shouldn't have been stiff were also stiff.

"I live where I must because the world has outworn its welcome. I have attempted to be compassionate, but the world shows no compassion to me. I have attempted to live an ordinary life, but I am always a freak. And now? Now I live in secret, doing what I must to keep what little I have. Is that the answer you wanted to hear?"

"Is it the truth?" she asked.

"Yes. Are you disappointed? Do you wish you had never come to Paris?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you want me to hate you?" she asked.

Her question caught him off-guard. Without thinking it over, he shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to become her enemy. Before she could say another word, he turned away from her.

"I think our four minutes have passed," Erik said through his teeth.

Christine rose to her feet as well. "It's only been three minutes," she spat. With both hands, she pushed on his chest and forced him back onto the bench.

Erik was sprawled out, completely flabbergasted by her actions. He sat unmoving as she stood over him.

"You give me one scrap of your entire life and expect me to nod and be content? Have you lost your mind? I will not give up so easily," she said.

And then she pounced like a lion on a steak, threw her arms around him, and didn't let go.


	17. Tangled Branches

Rose17

The heavens looked down upon them, the birds began to sing, and flowers burst into bloom at the sight of two lovers. Oh, what a glorious evening, incomparable to all others Erik had known before!

Caught up in the moment, Erik and Christine were oblivious to the world. They were too preoccupied with sucking face on a park bench in Paris to notice if France had started a revolution. This, as it so happened, was much better than a revolution. This was wild, passionate, feral, untamed and everything Erik had always imagined. This was why he had started composing Don Juan Triumphant...sans the arguing prior to Christine's mouth pressing to his.

Her tongue surged past his lips and the unexpected pleasantness caused him to grip the seat of the bench. This was no wilted little flower standing coyly by the wayside. This creature was a wild rose, petals fully opened and waiting to be stroked. Oh, how he wanted to stroke a velvety petal!

That was the only thought going through Erik's mind, other than Christine had her knee strategically placed between his legs and he was afraid to move. The woman could kick like a mule. He'd discovered that firsthand and didn't want to become reacquainted with her knee or foot anytime soon.

Pausing for a breath, they stared at one another, both attempting to catch their breath, neither of them knowing what to do other than going at it again.

"Wow," Christine sighed dreamily.

"Y-yes," Erik agreed. He couldn't bring himself to say wow. He really couldn't. There wasn't enough blood in his brain to form coherent sentences. Even if there had been enough blood in his brain, wow did not fit into his otherwise stern and frightful vocabulary.

"I feel like…a wildebeest," Christine cooed.

Erik's eyes grew wide. "Excuse me?" he stammered. The blood was returning to various other regions of his body now that his mind was on wildebeests.

"You are the mighty, virile lion and I am the frightened, unknowing but willing little wildebeest."

Erik furrowed his brow. "I don't understand. Why aren't you a lioness? Besides…actually, I believe it's the female lion that does most of the hunting."

"Oh, yes," Christine said with a seductive growl.

"Oh, yes…what?"

"I have no idea. But I think we should return to the opera house at once," Christine said. Her bosom rose and fell before Erik's eyes. It was mesmerizing and slowly erasing images of lions running down and ripping open wildebeests. "You haven't finished telling me about your life."

"Oh," Erik said under his breath. Apparently the moment of abandoning their senses and allowing their darker sides to finally have their way had ended abruptly.

"Surely that's not the end, is it?" Christine asked. She smoothed her dress as she sat down beside him.

"More or less."

"More, please," Christine said brightly.

Erik blinked at her. "That wasn't a choice."

"Excuse me?"

His eyes narrowed. "It's an expression."

Christine narrowed her eyes as well. "Yes, not a very comfortable one at that. But, as I was saying you must tell me more."

Exhaling, Erik gave up. "There is nothing else to tell, Christine. I am not an angel, which you realize now," he said remorsefully. "I'm not immortal, I'm not…" He stopped and shook his head. "I'm not anything."

They sat in silence for a while, Christine sitting with her arms crossed and Erik staring at his folded hands. His mood was so dismal that he was fairly certain he would never have an erection again.

"You should not have done what you just did," Erik said under his breath.

Christine either didn't hear him or chose to ignore his words. Placing one hand on his shoulder, she sat forward. "I know what you are," she said with a smile.

An extortionist, a liar, a thief, an abductor, Erik thought to himself. He looked at her and grunted.

"A musician, a wonderful singer, a most accomplished composer," she said, counting them on her fingers. "And now? A good kisser." Pressing her index finger to his lips, she stopped him from speaking before she was finished. "And the lion of my wildebeest dreams."

Throwing her arms around his neck, Christine hugged him tightly. Once she refused to let go and threatened instead to strangle him, Erik hugged her back. It was almost as pleasant as kissing.

Slowly and quite deftly, their close contact once again ignited undeniable feelings. Turning her face, Christine kissed him again and resumed her place with one leg between his. She started to run her hands through his hair, but Erik forced her to stop and trailed kisses along her throat and behind her ears.

Christine was the first to come to her senses. She sat on the bench beside him panting again, her bosom responding.

"Madame Giry never mentioned this part," Christine sighed. "But I do enjoy this part, Monsieur. Very much so."

Erik wasn't sure what she meant. "So do I," he said, rather than involve himself in another conversation where they were both discussing something else.

"We should return before these buds burst into bloom…before…these flames consume us!"

"You've read my entire opera!" Erik exclaimed quite pleasantly. The blood, which had returned to his feet and hands, doubled back to his groin in a triumphant parade dedicated to, well, Don Juan Triumphant.

"I have, Monsieur, and now I want to experience all of those gloriously hinted at experiences you've discovered and have decided to share with the aristocrats when they," she said, dramatically flinging her arms out and tossing her head back to shout, "Come and come and come by the droves!"

Erik sat speechless on the bench. His knees spread apart, his trousers noticeably tented even in darkness.

"Yes, Erik, they will come in the theater, all of them! And we will come onto the stage and give them a most titillating evening! You will fill the entire theater with the seed of your imagination."

"Uh—"

"But first!" Her voice lowered and she pointed her finger in Erik's face. "We must spend hours and hours practicing, enduring the plight of our chosen craft until it is a most exquisite display for all to see." She paused and allowed her words to linger. She was a born dramatic performer, Erik thought to himself. "We should begin immediately. I want you to show me everything you know."

"Everything?" Erik's throat suddenly seemed dry. He swallowed but it refused to go away. She wanted everything. From him.

Christine nodded. "Everything," she whispered. "You are the master and I am the willing slave of your genius, yours to command. When I read your opera, I knew it was true."

But it wasn't true. It was very much false in every possible way. Erik didn't know everything, at least not when it came to what she was referring to—which was a very big something to know absolutely nothing about. Once Erik was no longer sure what was being discussed, which was a shame because he was conversing only with himself. He had no idea why, in a heated argument, she had pounced on him quite like a lion on steak—or a lion on a wildebeest, or why this was suddenly leading to the possible end of all he had ever known.

"Christine," he said as he began to shake his head.

He'd never been with a woman before, not ever. All of the fantasies on the verge of becoming reality were no longer enticing. They were frightening and dreadful, becoming more grounded as the seconds passed. There was absolutely no way he could possibly pleasure her all night, not on the first try. Minutes, possibly—and that seemed hopeful all of a sudden.

"Will you teach me?" Christine begged. "Teach my buds to burst into bloom?"

"I think you've taught yourself."

Christine shot him a look. "When we return to the opera house, I am covering my mirrors," she said under her breath, but Erik wasn't sure what she meant or why she was still looking at him, a hint of anger in her eyes.

She placed her hand over his. "When will these flames at last consume us?"

"Very, very soon," Erik gulped. "But first, we must return to my apartments before the flames engulf us right here."

Christine checked his expression. "Do you think I'm not quite prepared for such intense and vigorous study?" she asked with a frown. "Because I will do anything to prove that I am quite ready."

Erik arched his eyebrow. "Anything?"

Christine nodded. "Anything you, my teacher, deem necessary."

Sitting quietly, Erik considered her words and evaluated the situation set before him.

"You may need to study day and night for hours at a time," Erik said at last. "I may be able to provide reading material if you wish. Are you prepared to meet my demands?"

"I am."

"Then let us return at once," Erik said. He stood and Christine took his arm. This was what he had always wanted, though as they walked back to the opera house, Erik had a feeling it would be nothing like he expected.


	18. A Rose without a Stem

A/N: Here's making up for all the author's notes I never include.

Please come visit me at my web page, and if you feel so inclined you can sign my guest book and read a few short stories and other misc. things. You can find Suburbia by going to my bio page and clicking on my link for my homepage. Thanks again for reading and for your feedback! Y'all rock!

Oh, yes, and I shamelessly swiped phrase here and there from ALW. It's all for the sake of romance and parody.

And as a final note: MadLizzy and HDKingsbury collaborated under the name HDKingsbury to bring you a shameless parody of one of my fan fics. If you like suggestive and well-written prose, give their story, **Gypsy Heart of Darkness**, a look-see. It's rate M for mature.

Gabrina

A Rose without a Stem

Rose18

"I always forget how big your organ is," Christine commented as they entered Erik's apartments.

While she walked behind him down the narrow hall, Erik rolled his eyes. Clearly, she couldn't contain herself when it came to voicing whatever random thought came to mind.

"You've only seen it once," he said over his shoulder.

"True," Christine replied brightly, accepting his offered hand. "But I would like to see you play it."

"Of course you would," he mumbled.

"May I play it?" she asked. "Or are you protective of your organ?"

Erik's pace slowed. "Christine—"

"Fine, then I will watch you play. What should I do?"

"I believe I would like to see you play as well," Erik said. He turned away and cleared his throat, wondering if she would understand the meaning behind his words. "Have you ever played before?" he asked as he turned to face her.

"But I don't have an organ," Christine frowned. Just as quickly as she appeared disappointed she smiled. "Ah, but yours is big enough for the both of us!"

"Indeed," Erik replied. He shuffled across the length of the room and unfastened his cloak. With a whirl of fabric over his shoulders, he allowed it to fall gracefully on the floor.

Christine groaned. Not a good, heavenly groan, either. A sound of absolute disapproval left her lips, causing Erik to turn and face her.

"That's twice now," she said, holding one hand against her hip.

"I do beg your pardon?"

Christine pointed at his cape. "That."

"That?" he asked, turning to find his cloak exactly where he left it.

"Yes, that," she scoffed.

"What about that?"

"It's on the floor," she said in an "isn't it obvious?" tone.

"Yes…"

"Don't leave it on the floor!" Christine huffed. She glanced around the room. "Before you teach me anything, Erik, you should teach yourself to tidy up a bit. Look at this place!"

And just like that their suggestive banter turned into Christine gathering discarded papers and placing them in piles. "Really, Erik, with all of these candles here and paper everywhere you're liable to set the whole opera house on fire."

Erik respectfully took a step back, unsure of what to say or do. To him, it wasn't messy or disorganized. He was an artist, after all, and artists had their own way of doing things. His genius could not be easily organized.

"Christine, my genius cannot be easily organized," he said, his voice deep and rich.

"Your genius is going to catch fire and kill you," she muttered.

Christine had a point, but Erik decided he didn't need to agree with her verbally.

"It hasn't happened yet," he muttered.

Her back turned rigid. "Excuse me?"

"Er…that's something I would regret."

"So would I," she said, pausing to put her hair back. She gave a long, hopeless sigh before resuming her efforts.

Erik rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet before he snapped into action and picked up his cloak. The moment he turned, Christine began flipping her cape out of her way as she crouched down on the floor.

"May I take your cape, Mademoiselle?" he offered.

His words earned him a smile. "Yes, indeed," Christine replied as she placed one final pile of papers onto a table hidden under dozens of other documents. "Now, what about that organ and my lessons?"

Erik squeezed his hands around her cloak. Despite taking a half hour to walk back to the opera house, he had no plans for her lessons, but following all of the talk concerning organs and playing, Erik certainly wished he had come to a decision.

"We should start where we left out," he suggested at last, extending his hand to her.

Christine stared at his gloved hand, then back at his face. She smiled and grasped his hand before giving him a tug and drawing him close.

The unexpectedness of her action made his breath hitch in his throat, and as Erik stood with Christine pressed against him, he swallowed hard and forced himself to inhale. He silently begged his hands not to tremble, his legs to remain firmly beneath him as Christine slowly removed her hand from his and tugged at the fingers of his gloves.

"I want your senses to abandon their defenses," she whispered as his glove came free and fell to the ground. The chill of the air was quickly replaced by the warmth and silken smoothness of her palm.

Erik stared at their joined hands, at how perfect and slender her fingers were compared to his larger, stronger hand. Somehow her beauty, her angelic nature, lowered itself to complement his wretchedness, he thought. If only for a moment, if only in innocence, they fit together.

Christine rose on the tips of her toes and Erik bent to meet her, his eyes remaining open so that he could watch her eyes flutter close, her lips part to welcome him. Time became fragmented, thoughts breaking away until only the moment between them remained.

It was just as good as he still remembered from their kiss in the park. She still tasted sweet and inviting, her breaths still soft against the left side of his face.

"Come to me," Christine said, her voice a low purr. "Come to me, my angel."

His hands snaked around her, taking her fully into his grasp. Christine's eyes widened suddenly as she looked him straight in the eye and Erik loosened his grip. In protest, Christine wrapped her arms around him.

"Organ indeed," she mumbled before she kissed him again, her tongue pushing past his lips. She backed him into the wall as she worked his remaining glove from his hand and laced her fingers with his.

Together they stumbled through the room, nearly tangling themselves in the curtain separating his music room from his bedchamber. It wasn't until his calves hit the bed and they toppled onto the mattress that Erik realized where they were at or what was about to happen.

"Wait," Erik said as he turned over and partially pinned Christine beneath him.

"Yes?" she asked, her lips perfectly damp and swollen, her hair fanned out around her.

"Shouldn't we discuss this?"

Her brow furrowed. "Discuss what?"

"This."

With her arms around his neck, Christine dragged him down for another kiss. "When two people are in bed, tongues are wasted on words."

Erik pulled away. "Quoting Shakespeare, are you?"

Christine giggled to herself. "No, I took the liberty of rewriting part of Don Juan Triumphant," she answered.

Erik blinked at her, unsure of whether or not he should be livid.

"I'm not serious," Christine sighed. She held her arms loosely around him, smiling devilishly. "Though if I were serious, I would demand that we rehearse that part a thousand times."

Brushing her hair away from her face, Erik kissed her again and felt her lower leg against the back of his thigh. "I have abandoned everything for you, Christine," he whispered under his breath.

In answer, she placed her palm against the masked side of his face.

"Damn you," Erik said as his eyes closed. "Curse you."


	19. Angsty Astor

Thanks for your reviews! And thanks to Lizzy for being so awesome and editing for me. Any mistakes are from me.

Rose19

"You little viper," Erik said as he rolled onto his side.

Frustrated, Christine pinched the back of his hand, which immediately garnered Erik's full attention. He stared at his hand in disbelief, his power over her nonexistent.

"Not that again," she groaned. "Honestly, I will not listen to your mantra all over."

"My mantra?" Erik snapped. He sat up and straightened his waistcoat. "You swore to me that you would not remove my mask."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't, and even if I did I never attempted to remove it, did I?"

Erik stammered just as Christine expected. "You implied."

"You are an aggravating man," Christine said under her breath as she picked at her fingernails. "A pleasant, talented, but completely aggravating individual."

"Then it appears we are at an impasse," Erik replied rather loudly as he pushed the covers away.

"Because you're afraid?" Christine pressed.

Erik sat motionless, aside from his grinding teeth. The visible left side of his face was taut, his green eyes turned dark at her words.

"I fear nothing," he said through his teeth.

Christine considered challenging him and requesting that he remove his mask, but she guessed his reaction. The violence with which he had risen from the organ bench the first time she had removed his white mask still hung heavily in her mind and she had no desire to see him lash out again.

Rather than instigate another argument or attempt to prove him wrong, Christine did the only thing she could.

She kept quiet.

Erik looked away from her for a long time. He was breathing heavily, a mixture of anger and unrequited passion. Watching Erik sitting beside her on the bed made Christine realize that she was also breathing heavily, her stomach aflutter. She wanted to tell him how she felt, but in doing so would draw the attention away from the topic at hand.

"Is it a macabre delight?" Erik asked at last. He didn't turn to face Christine, but she sensed the ire in his tone. "Is that why you removed it the first time?"

"No, it wasn't," Christine replied. "Please look at me when you speak, Erik."

"A spectacle?" he continued with his back to her. "A freak show you could view for free…save for the nightmares that will surely ensue."

"If I wanted to harm you I would have gone to the managers and told them where you lived," she countered. "Imagine how pleased they would be to discover a man, not a ghost, living below their opera house. A problem easily remedied by due force. And then what would have become of you, hmm? Do you think they would allow you to stay? To live?"

"Then you are my martyr," Erik said dryly.

Christine struggled to keep her composure. She didn't want a fight and she gathered that Erik didn't want to argue either. Glancing around, she saw the home of a very lonely soul, of a man who could have been a fascinating addition to the opera house, to the world, even. If only he could see past his own mask. If only he would allow her to see who stood behind a white piece of molded leather.

"You are the only one," he whispered at last, his voice lacking strength, his shoulder sagging as he kept his back to her. His outburst had ended, and just as she had seen before, the rage he felt was swiftly replaced by remorse and self-deprecation.

Christine wrapped her hands around the satin sheets to keep from reaching out to him, knowing that the moment she laid her hand upon his shoulder that he would not tell her what he meant.

He'd never guess that she wanted to be closer to him, that she needed to understand who he was and how he felt.

"I should never have brought you through the mirror, Christine," he continued, before he paused and rested his head in his hands. "The illusion has been shattered. The relationship we had…it will never be repaired. I am not a ghost. I'm a terrible fool. I should have kept it as it was… perfect, wasn't it?"

"There was nothing between us," she said gently. "You were not real to me."

Erik bowed his head and Christine wondered if she were telling him the truth. Though he had masqueraded as an angel, part of her—especially when she was older—wondered if he were something more than a voice behind her mirror. He spoke to her often of his travels, of distant lands she had never heard of. As much as she wanted to believe that he was a guiding voice she started to wonder if he were the one who was lost.

"No, I wasn't, was I?"

Erik sighed heavily and nodded at last. He still sat with his back to her, leaving Christine to wonder if anger showed on his visage.

"Do you want me to be real?" he questioned.

"Of course I want you to be real," she whispered. She smiled to herself, hoping to lighten the mood. "If you're not real and I'm sitting in the opera house basement having a conversation to with myself, then something is terribly amiss."

Erik made no reply to her light-hearted words. He rose to his feet and walked away from the bed, leaving Christine to sit awkwardly alone, unsure of where the conversation left them. Had she chosen the wrong words? Should she have coddled him, given in to his demands, or asked for his forgiveness?

She caught sight of a sketch laid out across a chair and her lips parted. It was her on the stage during Hannibal. The most spectacular evening of her night, when she finally proved herself as a singer, was caught in careful lines and rich colors.

"Then look at me, Christine. See what is real," he said, exhaling a ragged breath.

Christine pulled her eyes away from the sketch and turned to face him again. He offered her his white mask, his hand trembling as it passed from his grasp to hers. She studied it a moment, her gaze drawn to the eyehole, which she carefully traced with her finger. This was the window he peered through, the shield he had given up.

It took a moment for Christine to muster the courage to look him in the face, as she didn't want to disappoint him. She'd seen a mere glimpse of his face the first time, a half-second that was not enough to know what he looked like. Her concern was not centered on his appearance that night but on his anger and then his remorse. Nothing could have frightened her as much as his temper.

Hearing his harsh breathing, Christine met his eye. His face was twisted, not in deformity but in agony as he awaited her reaction. Swallowing hard, Christine slid her feet off the edge of the bed and left his mask on the pillow. Without a word, Erik watched her pad across the room and stand before him, his gaze darting across her face.

"Burns?" she whispered as she stepped in closer.

He shook his head.

"Torture?"

Again he shook his head, his eyes blinking quickly as he forced himself to stare back at her. Christine stood so close that she could feel him breathing. Her heart was beating wildly, though she felt a sense of relief in knowing that her dear phantom had not been tortured and maimed.

"Birth?"

Hesitating, Erik nodded and their eye contact was broken. As gently as she could Christine placed her hands on his shoulders and ran her fingers down to his wrists and up again. He didn't move, not even when she pressed her palms against his chest. By his tight-lipped expression Christine gathered that he was doing everything in his power to keep from weeping.

Tears pricked Christine's eyes as she studied his scarred face. The worst of his birth injuries were centered around his right eye and along his nose. She understood why he kept himself hidden, why no one had ever seen him -- much less his face.

Inhaling sharply, Erik stared her in the eye again. A tear, a single drop of emotion, rolled down the right side of his face and landed onto his cravat but he didn't look away. He wanted to know how she felt, if a scream would emerge once reality settled in and she realized that she had kissed a monster.

"I will not look away," Christine said as she smoothed his shirt collar. "Or faint or scream or do anything else ridiculous," she promised.

"Then you are very brave indeed," Erik replied, his tone still guarded.

"This has nothing to do with bravery," she replied as her fingers gently traced his jaw. "Long before you showed me your face I had your voice as company. I didn't know you, but I knew of you, and if you allow it I will know the rest of you."

Erik caught her hand by the wrist and gritted his teeth. "There is something more, Christine," he said, his voice breaking. "But you were correct: I am afraid."

"Of what? Of me?"

Spreading her fingers, Erik placed her open hand along his hairline. "Of this," he whispered.


	20. Planting Hope

Thanks again to Lizzy for helping me find balance. Om.

Your reviews have been greatly appreciated as the tone of the story changed and Christine and Erik evolved. Thanks for checking out my first exploration of an E/C. I appreciate the feedback!

Rose20

Dread seared through Erik's insides as he curled Christine's hand into a fist around his hairpiece and slowly moved her hand back, removing the last of his defenses. He couldn't look at her as the cool, damp air hit his real hair and scalp.

For a long moment he stood paralyzed, waiting for the nightmare to end, for his life to begin where he last remembered rational thought: The day before Hannibal.

He'd had no intentions of doing anything rash the day before the performance. Like every other in his lonely existence he knew he would work on his music and pay a visit to Christine, who was prepared for a bigger, more prestigious role on the stage.

And then the unexpected had happened and a lonely, terrified man became a desperate and dangerous monster, one who was still very lonely and terrified of losing his student.

Erik's grip on Christine's wrist grew tighter, his desperation unbearable. "I've dreaded this day," he whispered, his voice barely strong enough to speak. "This day you would see this."

Christine's eyes had turned glassy, her lips pursed tight. She dropped the hairpiece behind Erik's back where it lay forgotten, unneeded. Like the monster he was, Erik had frightened her terribly and yet he couldn't turn back. Their games of make believe had come to a frightful end, and like a rat trapped in the corner he could only face his demise. The only hope he had now was that she would find the mercy in her heart to kill him quickly.

"My poor mother," he mumbled, still holding her wrist tight. She felt oddly cold now, her hand limp as she faced her fate. "Always running away from me."

A tear slipped down Christine's cheek and Erik became aware of her free hand gently stroking his ear and cheek, her slender fingers cool against his burning flesh.

"I won't run," she promised.

His shoulders slumped, his back bent in defeat. "From the first time I saw you, Christine, I knew if we were to meet it would come to this. I expected it would be before a great deal of people…all of them watching, waiting in horror. The screams, Christine…can you hear them?"

She shook her head and bit her lip.

"They're always inside of me; that's why you can't hear them. And now that you're here, Christine, I'm afraid I cannot allow you to ever leave."

"You don't mean that, Erik."

"I do, Christine," he whimpered, so afraid that she would crumble in his grasp, that the living girl would indeed become his dead wife.

"You're trembling," Christine said timidly, making no attempt to free her hand and wipe her eyes. She stepped closer, her gaze trained on his, the look of horror he desperately searched for nonexistent. "Sit with me. I'll grab a blanket."

She was beyond repulsion now, Erik told himself. He'd killed the innocence inside of her, murdered the young woman he loved as much as he knew how to care for anyone. What would become of her now?

"I frighten you," he said.

His grasp had loosened and Christine easily removed her arm from his hold. His breath caught in his throat as he waited for her to turn and leave him, but she didn't move away. With more gentleness than he'd ever known, Christine placed her hands on his cheeks and cradled his face.

"You've demanded much from me," she said, devastating him.

Knees weakening, Erik fought to stay standing as his eyes clouded with tears. He hated himself for spiraling out of control, for losing every aspect of his illusion. What was once an enigma was reduced to a pathetic, pitiful creature stowed away in darkness, begging for one scrap of kindness, one moment of charity.

"I never meant to hurt you," he sobbed, attempting to pull away.

Christine came with him and together they sat on the steps. Neither of them spoke for a long time, and the only indication that Erik had of Christine's presence was her hand over his.

"Do you hate me now?" he asked at last when his throat ceased aching and the tears had finally dried. Anger pricked beneath his skin, the realization of what he'd done and how he could never return to the pleasant fantasy of their mock lives causing his jaw to clench.

"I will never hate you," Christine replied, "as much as you hate yourself."

With a ragged sigh, Erik nodded. Her words were painfully real, agonizingly true. No one would loathe him as much as he despised the man who was always there, mirror or not, masked or unmasked.

"Then where does this leave us? Where will the path lead us now, Christine?"

With her hand still in his, Christine half-smiled. "Do you know when I have been frightened of you?" she asked.

Erik lowered his gaze and refused to answer, expecting a list longer than he could remember.

"When you shouted at me the first time I removed your mask. Your anger frightens me, not your face," Christine replied. She leaned against his shoulder, the warmth of her body at last providing comfort. "When I first came to live here, I was often told of the opera ghost that dwelled in shadows. The dancers often scared one another with tales of a yellowed-eyed monster, of a creature with skin like parchment and a hole for a nose."

Erik stared at her, unsure of whether she mocked him. His hand slid away from hers but Christine wrapped her fingers around his wrist and made him stay with her. The gesture provided a glimmer of hope on the darkest night he could recall.

"I don't see a monster," she said as she kissed his shoulder.

Erik closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "What do you see, Christine?"

Her soft lips planted kisses along his neck and ear, her caress comforting rather than enticing. She was good to him; better than he'd ever imagined, sweeter than he'd dreamt it. Months, perhaps years would pass before he felt he deserved a moment of her time, but there was hope at last.

Christine's lips found his, and as she held her hand to his scarred face, he knew what she would say before the words left her mouth.

"I see potential, Erik."


	21. Bluebell Ball

Rose21

Christine woke up on the steps beside Erik. Her head was on his shoulder while his chin rested on his chest. His breaths were slow and steady, signaling that he was sound asleep, which caught Christine by surprised—but not nearly as much as the thread of drool stretching from the corner of her mouth to his shoulder.

Before he woke, Christine wiped her mouth and sat up, her eyes longingly drawn to the empty bed.

"Your neck will hurt when you wake," Christine said as she tugged on Erik's arm.

The end of a muffled snore left his lips as his head jerked up. His gaze flitted around the room, settling on Christine with a glazed look of surprise. Christine could almost see his mind unfurling the events of the night when she looked into his green eyes.

"Wake?" he murmured, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Christine nodded and clung to his arm as they stood together. "Come on," she said. "We'll freeze to death on the floor."

"We?"

"Yes, we," she chuckled.

Without protest, Erik flopped into bed and Christine joined him, her exhaustion far outweighing protecting her virtues. Bringing a blanket over their supine forms, Christine draped her arm over Erik's chest and rested her face against his shoulder.

"Christine," Erik whispered into her hair. "I love you."

She snuggled closer and answered in a murmured sigh.

-o-

Hours passed and Erik found himself in bed.

He had never experienced the sensation of a warm, soft body beside him in bed, which caused his breath to catch in his throat. How was this possible?

Christine was beside him, her arm draped over his chest, her soft breaths against his neck, and her sweet, feminine scent filling him. His heart stuttered, his throat going dry as realization set in. She was really there, really sleeping in his bed, in his arms.

Erik set his mind in waking slowly, allowing his senses to unravel the unexpected delight one by one lest he never experience it again. He wanted to remember the exact way her hair fell along her shoulders, the angelic look on her face, and the little glistening string from her mouth to his shoulder. Even that was endearing to him.

As to not disturb her, Erik lay awake and placed his hand over hers. Christine had stayed with him. He had no idea why, but his heart drummed faster as he recalled removing his mask and then his hairpiece, standing naked before her in the rawest way possible.

Yet she had stayed, when he thought for certain that she would leave him. How was this possible? How had the wretched truth garnered her affection more than his elaborate disguise?

Knowing that he risked disturbing her, Erik couldn't resist kissing the side of Christine's head. Just as he feared, it roused her from her sleep. With a soft sigh, she stretched and smiled at him.

"Hello," she smiled.

"Good morning."

"Is it morning?"

Erik furrowed his brow. "Honestly, I'm not certain. I'll find out."

Before he could rise from bed, Christine squeezed him tighter. "Don't move. Just stay with me."

Erik caught one of her curls. The feel of her silky hair between his fingers made his heart pound. Somehow, whenever he thought of Christine, he never imagined how soft her hair would be or how her skin would feel smooth as butter. He'd thought of her as fragile porcelain, but she was no lifeless doll. At least not in this moment.

"Is this a cruel dream?" he whispered.

Christine closed her eyes again. "It feels like the perfect dream," she murmured as she ran her hand up and down his chest. "Do you know what I dreamed of last night?"

"Tell me."

"Of a most spectacular ball."

"One or two?" Erik asked impatiently.

Christine pulled back. "Excuse me?"

He shook his head, suddenly realizing what she was referring to when she said "spectacular ball".

"Everyone was dressed in black and white, and then I was wearing a pale shade of pink and then you arrived and you were wearing blue."

"Blue?"

"Yes," Christine said as she sat up. "The blue of a robin's egg."

Erik appeared mildly disgusted. "Really," he muttered. "What a strange dream."

Christine shook her head. "Not a dream, I'm afraid. No, I know what it was, Erik." Her eyes grew wide as the fanciful thoughts danced through her head. "A premonition."

"A what?" he exclaimed, clearly appalled by the very thought.

"The Bal Masque is in three nights."

"Is it?"

"Surely you'll attend."

"Surely." After all, he'd already set up the trap doors.

"Yes, and it would be the perfect time for you to present your opera. With my assistance, of course."

"Honestly?" Erik asked as he, too, sat up.

Christine nodded. "Everyone will be there. It would be perfect."

"I'll threaten them if they refuse," Erik said under his breath.

"What? Oh, heavens no! You will present it, charm them, sway them in your favor and…well, that's all I've thought of thus far. But we have three days to figure out the rest," Christine cooed.

Presenting his opera was not a problem, however Erik had reservations concerning charming and swaying, unless swaying was from the end of a rope. But, since Christine appeared so pleased, he did little more than nod. "As you wish, Christine."

Christine took his hands in hers. "Let's find the correct material and make this dream a reality."

Oh God, Erik thought. Robin's egg blue, indeed.

"First," Erik said to slow her pace. "Breakfast."

His only hope was to distract her long enough to rid the opera house of every shade of blue. His mind had already settled on an appropriate color. Blood red, the color of death.

Red Death.


	22. A Trustworthy Rose

Rose22

Following breakfast, Christine happily returned to the upper floors in order to change her clothes and have final measurements taken for her Bal Masque costume. She expressed her concern that Madame would notice her absence and worry.

"How long shall you be away?" Erik asked, his voice unable to hide his anxiety.

"Not long," Christine answered. "I must gather my clothes, my shoes, my belongings that I will need if I come here for my lessons.

"Then I will wait behind the mirror until you are ready to return with me."

With a smile, Christine shook her head. "I know the way and you've shown me the electric bell. When I'm prepared I'll ring the bell and wait for you to guide me. I promise."

Erik hesitated, but there was little more he could do to convince her. "You will return to me tonight?"

"I will return when no one is suspicious. Erik, you must understand that if someone were to follow me down…it's far too dangerous. You risk your livelihood with your impatience, my dear. A night or two and I will see you again."

Her words made him increasingly anxious, which Christine noticed when she turned to face him. She stopped at once and placed her hand against the masked side of his face.

"Have I given you reason to distrust me?"

"No, you haven't, Christine."

Standing on the tips of her toes she pressed a kiss to his left cheek before cautiously placing her hand on the masked side of his face and pulling the leather covering away. By the remorseful expression on her face, Erik knew he appeared as terrified as he felt. He couldn't move as she kissed him tenderly, her lips fluttering across his cheek and to the corner of his mouth. The warmth of her lips made him shiver, a sensation mixed with pleasure and fear.

"I have always been true to you. Don't worry yourself, Erik."

"I know, but Christine…"

"Yes?"

Erik felt his mouth go dry. She made him experience the desperation he'd known throughout his childhood, the absolute fear of rejection he knew would never be avoided. It was his fate, it was his face that damned him.

"Eventually," he said under his breath, lacing his fingers through hers and bringing it to his damaged face. He allowed her fingers to skim over his red, uneven flesh, pulling her hand away before she drew back. "Everyone realizes that this will never change."

Christine shook her head. "I didn't say—"

"This face that earned a mother's fear and loathing, this mask my first unfeeling scrap of clothing." With a heavy sigh, Erik turned away, intending to return the mask to his face. "Pity comes too late."

"Turn around," Christine said gently. "Without the mask on."

Erik froze. Her request was one he was all too familiar with, as many people had asked him to remove his mask so that they could mock him.

"The feelings I have for you are not pity."

Erik merely nodded. Amongst the jeers and taunts he had experienced pity once in the form of a young ballerina. It made Erik wonder if Madame still felt the same, if even as an adult he garnered her sympathy.

"Do you want me to pity you?"

"I want…" Your compassion, your acceptance, your unwavering love, Christine. I want you as my own, as the dream that always leaves when I wake to stay at last. He exhaled hard. "I want only you."

Christine turned his face toward hers. "Look me in the eye and you will find I have no intention to deceive you as long as the feeling is mutual."

"I wouldn't," Erik started, realizing his words were false before he spoke. "It was the only way to win you, Christine. The only chance I have ever had with you was through deception. If I had come to you—"

"What's done is done. I will not worry about what is in our past." She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "A night or two at best will give you ample time to complete your costume." Straightening his lapels, she grinned. "Blue will bring out your eyes."

Erik's eyes closed to her touch, to the one sensation he was not accustomed to experiencing. He still hated himself for knocking Christine to the ground when she removed his mask. Part of him wondered if she would have screamed when she saw his face for the first time or if she would have continued to caress him.

"I have something a little different in mind," he murmured in her ear. There was no end to the overwhelming feelings she brought to him, the sensations he never knew existed but couldn't imagine living the rest of his life without knowing.

"I trust you," Christine replied before they parted. She paused and looked at him one last time. "When I return, we must rehearse for your opera."

"What if they refuse?"

Christine shook her head. "Sometimes you must see the glass half-full."

Erik nodded before she disappeared, his gesture only meant to appease Christine. In his lifetime he'd only known the glass to be empty.


	23. Fermented Flower

The fabulously funny Cleolinda Jones allowed me to borrow a phrase of hers for this chapter. Go visit her at Cleolinda dot com and check her out! I marked her five-words with an .

Rose23

Christine returned to the dancers lounge to find Madame popping the cork on a bottle of wine. Wisely, she approached with caution, as Madame Giry had her cane near.

"You've returned," Madame said, sounding slightly surprised.

Christine's eyes widened. "I haven't been gone," she lied, blinking to feign innocence.

Madame Giry tipped back the bottle. "And this is only my first drink of the day," she muttered under her breath. "I hear you went for a walk last night."

"Excuse me?"

Madame rolled her eyes. "To the park."

"Ah. Yes. Last night."

"Last night," Madame Giry reflected. "And then?"

Christine bit her bottom lip. "And then…"

"You both returned…"

"We returned…"

Madame placed the bottle on the couch beside her and sat back. "He has taken you to that secret place?"

"Well, yes…" Christine continued cautiously. "To the seat of sweet music's throne."

"Ah, yes," Madame said, tossing her head back. "I remember sweet music's throne."

Christine wrinkled her nose. "I meant his organ."

Madame cocked a brow. "Yes, precisely. His organ," she sighed.

"No, no, I mean the one that he plays."

Madame shrugged. "Don't judge him, Christine. He's very lonely."

"How is it that you know him?" Christine asked in hopes of changing the subject.

Madame's eyes narrowed. "It was a very long time ago…"

-o-

With Christine gone, Erik removed his monkey with cymbals from the bedside and used it as a weight to hold the fabric as he cut. For weeks, he had been contemplating attending the Bal Masque. He'd spent hours planning his costume and deciding how he would present his work to the two fools who ran his theater.

Threats had always worked in the past, garnering not only adequate funds that allowed him to live as he chose, but also guaranteeing his privacy and a high level of respect from those who lived above him.

"No one would ever respect this," Erik muttered as he set his mask aside, fingers brushing past his cheek. The mask was a part of him, but Erik needed a better view of the fabric he was cutting than a mask allowed.

As he moved around his work table, he stepped on one of the velvet coverings shielding his view of the floor-length mirror. The fabric fell as he glanced up, finding his clean-shaven face staring back. As quickly as he had looked up, he turned away and paused, still holding scissors in one hand.

Separation from the world had made scissors and a reflection a terrible combination. In his darkest, loneliest hours, Erik had considered many possibilities for his own fate. Everything he did seemed to be in vain, as no matter how fine his clothes, how neat his hair, there was never anything available that could hide him completely. The ruse of the theater merely worked on the stage, he realized. Eventually the dancers exchanged their costumes and makeup for who they were underneath. Erik only wished there were a man underneath to show Christine, someone dignified and tangible beneath the monster.

"Fear," he said under his breath as he met his reflection once more. His shoulders were slumped, his posture hinting at the wretch that occupied his soul. Wisely, he placed the scissors on the table, preventing an unfortunate accident.

Swallowing hard, he neared the mirror, not once looking away from his own desperate, pleading gaze. "Into love."

Was it a mistake to allow her to leave again? Each time she was allowed her freedom he risked losing her, of having her look into another man's eyes and know her choice. But if he forced her to stay with him, he feared she would either grow to resent him or attempt to escape. She deserved better than to be forced into darkness, he knew. His actions were for the best, no matter how much it hurt him.

Erik touched his cheek where Christine had rested her hand. There was no fear in her eyes, no hesitation on her part. He thought of Christine for a long while until a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Reaching for the scissors, he held out the fabric and cut along the chalk lines.

Potential, she had said. Christine saw what no one else had ever seen, what he'd never found in himself.

Cutting the last piece of fabric, Erik held up the blood red material. The death's head was stored away in one of the many boxes. In three days time he would have the costume completed. Already the power he anticipated excited him. How he loved the freedom of walking among others, their faces masked as his own was bringing no apprehension. If he so desired, it was possible that none would know who he was or suspect his treachery.

"Triumph," he said to himself. Placing the fabric down, Erik decided to pay another opera house resident a visit.

-o-

"And those are the seventy-two reasons why I say a woman should always take a Turkish man as a lover," Madame Giry concluded.

Christine furrowed her brow and cautiously backed away toward the lounge door.

"Quite fascinating," she said. "Thank you, Madame."

Before Madame Giry could continue, Christine burst down the hall. The last she heard was Madame shouting that she'd forgotten reason # 73.

"Next time!" Christine shouted over her shoulder.

Rounding the corner, she ran directly—and literally—into the Vicomte de Chagny, who tossed his hair urgently.

"Christine," he said with a nod. "You've been avoiding me."

"Honestly, I have not."

"You can be honest with me, Little Lotte."

"I am being honest with you, as I just said. And, may I remind you, Vicomte, I have to see you first in order to avoid you," she pointed out.

Raoul appeared frustrated. "I'm concerned, Christine."

"What reason do you have to be concerned, my dear brother?"

"I haven't seen you in years and now it feels as though I shall never see you again. It seems you are always away. It pains me deeply, as now that I know you are here, I plan to take full advantage of my position as patron."

Christine cocked her head to the side. "Why sir, may I ask what position you are referring to? Aside from a box for performances, I see little else you are entitled."

"I am entitled to every position...with a certain, lovely someone."

"Will you start from the bottom and work your way up?" Christine asked.

"Nothing would please me more, if she would allow it," Raoul replied smoothly.

Christine smiled. "Good. Then you may begin with maid's duties and clean the sheets Meg soiled."

Before Raoul could reply, Christine turned on her heel and marched away. The sound of his voice followed her to her room where she promptly locked her door.

-o-

If there were one thing Erik knew for sure it was that Madame Ann Giry could be a surly drunk if she substituted brandy for wine.

He approached her mirror with caution.

"Do not disturb!" she howled. "Return to your rehearsals!"

"I'm not one of your dancers," Erik grumbled as he slid the mirror open and stepped inside. He walked across the room, locked the lounge door, and seated himself opposite Madame.

"Must you shout?" Madame snapped.

"My voice is barely above a whisper."

Madame held up the empty bottle. "This is causing an echo," she said, sounding quite miserable.

"Then put it down."

She shrugged. "It's empty now. What's the point?" Before she allowed Erik to answer, Madame stretched out on the couch. "I was rather hoping you would pay me a visit."

"Is that so?" By her position on the couch, Erik had reservations about staying another moment.

"Yes, I wanted to urge you to be cautious. There are boundless rumors surrounding Christine's disappearance."

"Do you honestly think rumors concern me?" he rumbled.

"They should."

Erik made no reply. He studied the arm of his chair and gritted his teeth, knowing Madame was correct. He was standing on a very fine line, one he'd often considered but never dared to cross.

"Why now?" Madame questioned at last.

"Pardon me?"

"For years you were content with being her teacher."

"I've never been content," Erik muttered. Barely tolerable was an apt description of how he felt.

Madame folded her hands. "Very well. For years you were virtually unnoticed, but now you're daring to be seen."

"I'm not daring anyone," Erik muttered.

"Monsieur Lefevre gave you twenty thousand francs a month, no questions asked. Firmin and Andre will do the same…with a polite reminder, of course," she said with a sly smile.

"Money doesn't interest me."

Erik felt Madame Giry staring at him and knew what she would say.

"When did you know of the new patron?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

Erik glanced at her before looking away again. "Not nearly soon enough."

If he had known weeks ago that a young and handsome man from Christine's past would appear again, he wouldn't have spirited her away that night. Precision was key. It was the architect in him that demanded careful execution, which he had not done. His thoughtless actions had risked everything far too soon, but a desperate animal forced into a corner would do anything to escape its fate. Taking Christine away was the only answer.

"I've warned him twice not to occupy your box."

"He's an aristocrat," Erik shrugged. "Their heads tend to be thicker than most."

"Perhaps that is true. Should our paths not cross for many months, I leave you with a single warning."

"Save your warnings. This is my theater," Erik growled defensively.

"No matter how great your illusions, you and I both know that you cannot always be everywhere at once."

"And what of it?"

"You must be always on your guard," Madame said as she rose to her feet. "Now more than ever."

"Would you like to say something more cryptic?" Erik asked as he rose and made his way to the mirror.

The lounge door closed, only an empty bottle left where the ballet instructor had stood moments ago.


	24. Thorns Thrive in Darkness

I really don't know what's going on with fanficdotnet. I hope this uploads correctly this time. Sorry about that. Consider the snafu a sneaky ploy to get you all to read A Heart that Waits, A Heart that Bleeds!

Rose24

"We have all been blind, and yet the answer is staring us in the face," Buquet said to a small group of stagehands crowded around.

With all the commotion focused on the upcoming Bal Masque, few had concerned themselves over the Phantom of the Opera. Stealing liquor from the managers and finding new places to sleep were much more rewarding than looking for an apparition, but Joseph Buquet had gathered his closest companions to share his plan.

"For if we wish greater funds, we must ensnare our clever friend."

"We're listening," one dirty face mumbled. "Go on."

Buquet smiled to himself, knowing it was only a matter of choosing the correct words if he wanted their help.

"Twenty thousand francs a month. What could the six of us do with extra money? Have a kingdom of catacombs and trap doors to ourselves?"

"Buquet, you fool, he'll hear you! This is his theater—or so he claims. Dare you risk your neck?" an older man named Marksby said through the cigar dangling between his lips.

"For twenty thousand francs a month, Marksby? I'd risk my children for that."

"Who says it goes to us?" another man questioned.

Buquet nodded, expecting such concerns. "Who says it doesn't?"

"The managers, for one," Marksby said as he crossed his arms.

"Ah, they are twits better served in an office, not the arts. Once we track down and catch this extortionist, there will be plenty of room for another ghost," he replied with a wink. "One who demands more money…or blood."

The group began to murmur, nodding to one another. Considering Buquet had come up with this plan, it didn't sound half-bad. In fact, it sounded quite lucrative.

"We find him and kill him, then we don't worry about no more threats. The notes continue, and if someone disappears…a ballerina, perhaps…or a soprano? They will take us seriously and the money will pour in. Six months later we raise the price, higher the stakes, see where fate leads us."

"When shall we begin our search?" Marksby questioned.

Clasping his hands, Buquet searched the catwalks. From the corner of his eye he saw the new patron walk past. The Vicomte de Chagny didn't seem like much of a man, Buquet thought to himself, and so he made no attempt to lower his voice.

"Soon we will be wealthy men indeed, and our resident ghost will find himself unemployed and rotting in the basement."

-o-

"Who is escorting you to the ball?" Meg asked Christine as they stretched before rehearsals. "Is it the Vicomte de Chagny?"

Christine shook her head. Raoul was the last person she wanted to discuss following their meeting the previous day.

"How unfortunate," Meg frowned. "I suppose that leaves a chance for the rest of us."

"Excuse me?"

Meg shrugged innocently. "Well, he is very handsome. Anyone here would be attracted to him."

With a sigh, Christine put both of her hands behind her back and stretched her shoulders and arms. "He's not the same person I knew years ago."

Meg nodded. "He's better," she grinned before skittering away.

Christine continued to stretch alone. She glanced up at the catwalk in search of Erik but assumed dancing girls didn't entertain him. She couldn't help but wonder what he was doing while she was gone. Her assumption was that he was working on the finishing touches of his opera and his costume. Before Christine could further daydream, Madame Giry tapped her cane on the floor and signaled all the girls to her. With a reluctant sigh, Christine prepared to join her troupe once more.

A shiver traveled down her spine and stopped her in her tracks. It was most likely a breeze caused from an open door (someone was always leaving a door open) but still it alarmed her. Since discovering that the famed opera ghost was a man of flesh and blood, her fears of shadows had diminished.

But now her fears returned. Turning in a full circle, she had the creeping suspicion that someone was watching her and that someone was not Erik.

-o-

From a distance he watched, obscured by the scenery and looming shadows. He didn't care if anyone spotted him, as he knew no one would confront him. He watched Christine and half-listened to the stagehands crowded around, feeling somewhat bored with the theater.

Demands…money…blood…resident ghost...rotting…

Turning, he peered at Buquet, his eyes narrowed as he wondered what the stagehands were planning. Judging by the sound of it, they were devising a coup.

"Drunken fool," he said under his breath before he walked away, intending to speak to Christine following rehearsals. Something told him she might be in danger.


	25. A Rose by Any Other Name

Rose 25

There was a note waiting in Christine's dressing room following rehearsals. Once she undressed and bathed, she sat down and opened the envelope.

_Until the Bal Masque, My Angel._

_O.G._

Abandoning the note, she walked to the mirror and pried it open, finding the dank hallway beyond empty. Brow furrowed, she knotted her hair into a bun and decided to take the main stairs down to the fifth basement where the light would be better and hopefully less populated by rats. She would surprise Erik with a short visit and see if he had finished his costume yet.

The moment she walked out her dressing room door and into the hall she saw Raoul turning the corner and cursed under her breath. He'd been standing off to the side during rehearsals, swallowed up, it seemed, by several overly interested chorus girls that were falling over one another for his time. When Madame Giry stopped to howl at one of the dancers Christine had seen Raoul yawning and nodding at the chorus girls' painful attempts to shake their bosoms in his face or lean on his arm.

"May I have a word with you, Christine?" Raoul called out as he trotted down the hall to meet her.

Finding no escape, Christine's shoulders dropped and she sighed. "Only a moment. I'm terribly busy, Raoul."

"May we speak somewhere…more private?"

"I don't believe that would be wise," Christine replied. "My virtues have been in question enough as of late."

"Which is no fault of mine," Raoul answered.

"What ever do you mean, sir?"

Raoul stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You know very well what I mean. You said so yourself, that you have been visited by the Angel of Music. That is only half-true, isn't it Christine?"

"It's the truth," Christine said, blinking innocently. "When I'm asleep in my bed the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."

Raoul crossed his arms, remaining skeptical. "And am I to assume that you are a poet and didn't even know it?"

"Excuse me?"

Raoul shook his head, standing with his palms out. "I haven't approached you in order to argue, Little Lotte. A conversation with you regarding your so-called Angel of Music and nothing more. I swear it."

Christine looked him over, wanting to disbelieve his words. He'd never been untrustworthy in the past, but that was when they were mere children. Their lives had since changed. Nothing was for certain.

"Why do you wish to discuss my voice coach?"

Raoul glanced behind him before he turned to Christine and offered his answer. "Because you have always been dear to me. Do I need another reason, Christine?"

He was sincere, his voice and face lacking any lecherous undertones. "Where do you wish to speak?" Christine asked at last.

"The rooftop," Raoul replied as he took Christine by the arm. "Where you are safer."

"Safer? From what, pray tell?" Christine gasped as they walked along.

"I shall tell you when we are alone. There are far too many souls lurking in shadows these days."

-o-

There was snow falling when Christine and Raoul exited onto the rooftop.

"Will you be chilled standing up here?" Raoul asked.

"Not if you speak fast."

Standing on the ledge, Erik watched in shadows. He'd come up here as he had a thousand times before to quiet his thoughts. Much as he hated to admit it, he was not so different from other mortal men and he needed a moment with nothing but the chill of night in the winter or the heaviness of a humid summer evening. Fresh air kept him sane—or sane as his life would allow.

But now the salvation was ruined. Christine had betrayed him, and cloaked in shadow he would watch her slip the dagger from its sheath.

"Who is this man, Christine?"

Christine appeared taken aback by Raoul's question. "He's my music teacher."

"Where is he from?"

"Well…"

"You don't know?"

"Of course I know!"

"Then? Where is he from?"

Christine crossed her arms. "He's from…Paris."

"Paris?"

"Yes, Paris."

"And his name?"

"His name is Erik."

"His full name, Christine."

"I don't understand why you're questioning me. Are the gendarmes hiding behind the statues?"

"Yes," Raoul answered dryly. "I've hired an army to storm the opera house on your behalf. Don't be absurd. Now, tell me Christine, what's his name?"

"Erik…"

"Yes…?"

"Monsieur Erik Lu…"

"Monsieur Erik Lu…?"

"Lu'oar?"

_Lu'oar?_

"Is that a question?" Raoul implored. "And an echo?"

"No, that's his name. Monsieur Erik Lu'oar?"

_Christine…?_

"Did you hear that?" Raoul gasped. "It sounded like the wind called your name!"

"That's nonsense. Who would be up here aside from you and me, Raoul?"

"I suppose you're correct. But why does his name sound like a question?" Raoul asked.

Christine shrugged. "I really don't know. But that is his name. He's a composer."

"I've never heard of him," Raoul huffed.

"You've never heard of the great Monsieur Erik Lu'oar?"

_Noir…_

"Christine, would you cease this Tom Foolery! How are you creating these voices?" Raoul demanded.

"You've gone mad. Now, are we quite through? These clothes were not made for the blustery cold," Christine replied.

"We're not done, Christine. I'm concerned. Tell me honestly: Who is this man?"

Christine sighed. "Father once spoke of an angel…"

"There is no angel, Christine. He's real, isn't he?"

She lowered her gaze. Erik looked on, daring another glance from behind the shield of Pegasus. What would she tell her beloved Vicomte now?

"He is."

"And that isn't really his name, is it?"

"It is! But no one knows his name! He's…he's…"

"Tell me, Christine. You can tell me anything. You know that."

_Hush…_

Christine heard him that time. Erik was certain of it. He held his breath as Christine stepped away from Raoul and examined the night.

"He's the Phantom of the Opera."

Raoul made no reply. He stood and stared at her for a long moment, his arms crossed and eyes studying her face.

"Christine, there is no Phantom of the Opera."

"Raoul, I've been there," she said as she turned to face the patron.

"Where?"

"To his world of unending night."

"You're speaking nonsense. I don't like this one bit, Christine."

"I've seen his face."

Erik pressed his back to the statue and closed his eyes. This was what he dreaded, Christine confiding in another, drawn into the arms of a handsome man who would offer to protect her.

_It is hardly a face, so distorted, deformed, not even in darkness…_

"Has he hurt you, Christine?"

Tell him, Erik silently dared her. Tell him how I screamed at you when you removed my mask, tell him how you fell to the ground, how I towered over you and frightened you to death.

"He would never hurt me," Christine answered softly. "At first I wasn't certain, but now…? I do trust him. He has been good to me."

Raoul nodded. "He is the one with the death's head? The one who lurks in shadows."

"He is a genius," Christine answered. "No death's head, Raoul. He has reasons for lurking in shadows."

"Such as?"

"His reasons are his own. You may ask him yourself."

"Honestly? When?"

"At the Bal Masque. This is his domain. It is only fitting that he would attend the Bal, don't you think?"

It was Raoul's turn to be silent. Erik stood and examined the space between his beloved soprano and her childhood sweetheart. He no longer cared if they saw him; in fact he almost wanted them to see him standing behind them. Perhaps it would do the Vicomte good to know that he was in the presence of a demi-god.

"I urge you to be cautious, Christine. There are plans being made—quite sinister plans."

"Excuse me?"

"If this is his domain, then he should already know. Ask him, Christine. Ask Erik Lu'oar."


	26. Floral Fear

Thanks to MadLizzy for offering her beta skills!

Rose26

"You must go," Raoul urged. "They'll wonder where you are. Come with me, Christine."

A snowflake fell on the tip of her nose. Shaking her head, Christine sighed. "I want to stay a moment more. Go on without me."

"Are you certain?"

_Leave._

Raoul cringed in surprise. "I swear to you, Christine, there are voices on the wind."

"Clearly, you must be exhausted."

"Perhaps you're right, Christine. I've never spent so much time in bed and so little time sleeping until I arrived here as patron. Duty awaits!" Raoul exhaled. He studied Christine one last time. "You're absolutely certain that you wish to stay here alone?"

"I am." With a half-smile, Christine watched Raoul disappear through the door and leave her standing on the roof. Wrapping her cloak tighter, she turned and scanned the statues.

"He's gone now," she said. "Do you intend to hide in shadows until I'm gone as well?"

The sound of feet shuffling through the snow drew her attention to the roof corner. Though he remained in shadows, Christine saw Erik's hardened expression.

"He's in love with you," Erik said, keeping his voice low. He spoke through his teeth, rage and agony filling his words despite his soft tone.

"He's protective," Christine corrected. "Noble but harmless, if his intentions concern you."

"Why did you tell him?"

"Excuse me?"

"He will go to the managers, to authorities," Erik spit. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"You make him sound like a child," Christine grumbled.

"He's a boy," Erik snapped.

"Hardly."

"You defend him?"

Christine rolled her eyes. "As patron, he has clout in the theater."

"No more so than I have," Erik replied defensively.

"Ah, yes, I have forgotten," she replied dryly. "Whereas you take money, however, he and his parents support the arts."

Erik glared at Christine, unable to argue that point. "He was born of privilege."

"Would you honestly prefer spending this lovely evening arguing over Raoul de Chagny rather than enjoying the snowfall?" Christine sighed. "Stamp your feet if you must, but I'll have you know I am not pleased with your spying."

"Spying," Erik said under his breath.

"Eavesdropping." She shook her finger. "And not a word of nonsense over being my angel. Your halo is anything but straight, sir."

"Why would you tell him? Answer me that."

"To form an alliance," Christine answered.

"I don't need his pity."

"Erik, please. This has nothing to do with pity. He's someone to back your opera."

Erik studied her a moment. "Why would he ever do such a thing?"

Christine shrugged. "Because at the Bal Masque he will finally meet a musical genius whose works deserve to be shared with Paris and beyond. It would prove lucrative to the managers to bestow our stage with something innovative, provocative, ecstatic."

With a nod, Erik crossed his arms. "A business arrangement?"

"Yes, exactly."

His eyes narrowed, jealousy evident in his piercing gaze. "At what price?"

Christine, seeing her opportunity to end their conversation regarding Raoul, wrapped her arms around Erik's waist and pulled herself close. "I have known Raoul de Chagny for many years. We were childhood sweethearts, yes, but we are children no more. My affection for him is that of sister for her brother. He is aware of this fact and being a man of his breeding and ethics, I have no doubt he will respect my decision."

Erik remained unconvinced, his body still rigid, his jaw still set.

Christine smiled up at him, knowing his fears were deep and that one night would not quell his anxieties. "Do you ever dream of seeing your opera performed on stage?" she whispered as she ran her finger along Erik's jaw.

"With you as the lead."

"Forget your hopes for me," she murmured with a shake of her head. "What do you want for your work?"

Erik's arms snaked around her, his hands clasped at her back. "I've never considered that."

"Perhaps you should." Christine inched closer, so close she could feel his breaths on her face. "The night is too keen and cold, the snowflakes too brilliant to waste on words, especially a disagreement. Stand with me, if only for a moment, and keep me warm."

Erik held her closer and rested his chin on the top of her head. Inhaling deeply, he ran his fingers down her back. "His words do not bode well with me."

Christine resisted the urge to pull away and look Erik in the eye. She was far too comfortable in his arms and had hoped that he would be content in hers.

"If you took a moment to speak to him, I think you would enjoy his company. He's very intelligent, a gregarious party host, a wonderful dancer, and not a bad tenor." Pausing, Christine lifted her head. "I suppose nothing I have said impresses you."

"He mentioned a plan."

"Ah, yes. A sinister plan. I have no idea what he means."

Erik's grip tightened. "Neither do I. You should be wary of your surroundings, Christine. I won't risk anything happening to you, not ever, not when you're this close to your dream."

His words caught Christine by surprise and a shiver wriggled up her spine. "Are you attempting to frighten me?" she questioned.

Erik glanced down at her and shook his head. "Erik…Lu'oar? He would never attempt to frighten you," he answered bitterly.

Christine pursed her lips. "I can't think well under pressure."

"Obviously. Lu'oar? Lu'oar! Of all the names in the world. Why not Noir…Belmont…Levesque…Kire…Leroux is nice and French."

"As is Lu'oar," Christine shrugged.

"Oh, Christine," Erik exhaled heavily. He looked at her again, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Your nose is red. Come, we must return before you catch your death."

"I don't feel like returning to my room," she sighed, lacing her fingers with Erik's. "I'm not the least bit tired and there is absolutely nothing to do but read…unless Meg is in there with her mystery groomsman."

"Groomsman?"

Christine nodded. "He's a horseman. At least that's what I think she said. I was so infuriated to find her in my bed that I didn't listen to what she said. But, anyhow, I don't want to sit around and read or stumble upon Meg being ravished."

"Good. I want you to see me dressed in my costume."

Christine cocked an eyebrow as she looked him up and down. "And out of it as well," she said under her breath.

"Pardon me?"

"I simply cannot wait," she said cheerfully.


	27. Dormant Winter Springs to Life

Sex is in the Erik/Christine forecast. Readers beware that if you don't like a little hanky panky, skip the end of the chapter.

Rose27

Red Death was certainly more enticing than standing on the rooftop with frozen breaths. Erik emerged from his bedchamber, complete with skull mask and sword at his side.

"It's…interesting," Christine said, her thoughts lost somewhere in her stomach.

"Interesting?" Erik questioned. He frowned, apparently disappointed that the costume he'd painstakingly sewn together (his exact words—said with a hint of whining) hadn't garnered a greater reaction.

Christine shifted her weight. Was there a polite way in which to tell a man that she'd rather rip his painstakingly constructed costume from his trim hips and broad shoulders, throw him down on the swan bed, turn the hideous monkey away, and ravage him until they were forced to leave the bed for fear of death by starvation or—heaven forbid—missing the party?

With a sigh, Erik placed his hands on his hips and walked toward the organ.

"It's a very extravagant costume," Christine said amiably. "The details are quite amazing."

Erik snorted. "I suppose you'd enjoy it more if it were blue," he grumbled as he shuffled through sheet music. He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it to the ground, his frustration obvious in his childish actions.

"Blue shmoo," she said. She made a raspberry and waved her hand at him, even though he wasn't looking. The costume, she noted, looked equally impressive from behind.

Christine cleared her throat. "Where did you learn to sew?"

"I taught myself," he answered as he pulled the bench out and straddled it.

"You seem to have taught yourself many things," Christine commented.

Erik shrugged. "Enough to survive, I suppose," he said under his breath.

His words struck her as odd, and Christine held her tongue while she watched him create two separate piles of paper. Where did he come from? She wondered. What sort of life and childhood had her angel experienced? Was he born to parents of privilege or parents that could not afford a child?

As she daydreamed, Erik reached over and grabbed her hand. "You've that look again."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That dreadful questioning look," Erik replied. He forced a smile and sighed. "When I would come to you at night, you'd have a look in your eyes whenever you didn't understand something."

Christine chuckled. "Are you certain it wasn't when I stopped listening?"

Erik glared at her as she sat beside him. "You were a very intense teacher."

"That is why your voice is good. Though you must understand that if you wish to excel you have much still to learn. If pride will allow it, Christine, you must continue your lessons with me, your teacher."

"You're much more prideful than I am," Christine replied. "And, I'll have you know, I have no intention of forgoing my lessons until you push me from your nest."

He stared at her as though he wasn't sure if she were mocking him. Christine placed her hand over his and rested her head on his shoulder.

"You should have taught yourself a sense of humor," she said with a sigh.

"No one would listen," Erik said under his breath. "No one but you."

Christine pulled away and studied the side of his face. "Why not?"

Erik held his fingers poised over the keys. "Why do you think Christine?"

Christine brushed lint from his shoulder and decided to drop the subject. "Red is definitely your color," she said as she ran her fingers between his shoulder blades.

Erik exhaled hard to her touch, his head rolling back. Though he didn't face her, Christine knew he watched her closely from the corner of his eye, waiting…wanting it to be true. _No one would listen…no one but her…_

"You are my genius," Christine said under her breath. "Mine alone."

She licked her lips and aroused him with a simple, feathery touch down his back, enjoying his questioning expression. The tables had turned, she knew, and he was at last completely at her mercy.

"Our games of make believe," she whispered. "Are at an end."

Christine kept her hand on his shoulder and stood to face him. Erik rose alongside her and she looked him in the eye as she placed her hands on either side of his face. His lips parted, eyes widening in a spike of fear. He gripped her wrists and swallowed hard before releasing her.

"This is a splendid costume," Christine said as she lifted the mask. She tossed it onto the organ bench before she linked her arms around Erik's neck.

"But I don't," she kissed him once on the cheek.

"Want to see it."

She kissed him again on the other cheek.

"At the moment."

Another kiss to the corner of the mouth.

"Shall I change?" Erik asked, his voice weak before he fit his mouth to Christine's and crushed her breasts to his chest.

Christine shook her head and began to blindly unbutton his costume. "You needn't change. Removing it will be fine."

Erik didn't question her words. He stood before her completely paralyzed and watched as she unbuttoned his costume down to his belly.

"You feel so warm," Christine murmured as she placed her hands on his bare chest. Erik tentatively grasped her arms and drew her close enough to brush a kiss past her lips.

"Oh!" Christine said. "You just…poked me with your sword."

"Christine," Erik replied as he gripped her tightly. "I'm not wearing my sword."

Christine felt her face flush. "In that case, I suppose I've nothing to worry about."

-o-

In a tangle of arms and legs and lips, Erik and Christine nearly stumbled over the organ bench and down the stairs. Erik would have rather broken his neck rather than release Christine for even a moment. Decades of being alone, years of waiting for her to know him, months of planning ruined by the vicomte's arrival…at last, dreams became the sweet fruit of labor and longing.

Falling over one another, they ended up several feet from the lake by mistake, with his shirt lost somewhere between the pipe organ and where they stood and her dress loose around her shoulders.

He left her breathless as he kissed her shoulder and ran his fingers through her hair. Her skin felt smooth as silk, her throat and shoulder perfumed with hyacinth. She was the embodiment of femininity in smell, taste, and touch.

Erik tilted Christine's head back and hungrily tasted her throat. He felt her grow heavier in his grasp as her knees weakened and she surrendered, not to the music of the night, but to her own freely given passion.

"Come with me," he said, keeping his voice low as he walked her into his bedchamber.

Erik walked backward, as he wanted to see Christine's expression, to remember everything about the moment. She kept her gaze trained on him, a slight smile playing at the corner of her lips.

Once they stood at the bedside, Erik took a step back and held Christine's hand in his own. There they stood, hand in hand, and stared at each other. He imagined them on stage together, gazing into each other's eyes. How perfectly her hand fit into his, how exquisite she looked at his side with her face flushed and lips red and full from their kisses. He drank her in, inch by inch, savoring her bare shoulders where his lips had touched, her long neck…

With a firm tug, Erik brought her into his arms and felt her grip his shoulders, excitement sparkling in her eyes. She turned her head to the side and parted her lips as he kissed her again, deeper than before.

Christine groaned softly and dug her fingers into his arms. Her hands trailed along his sides and around to his back where she gripped him tighter, grazed his flesh with her fingernails. Her touch wavered between pleasure and pain, and he wanted more of it—more of everything.

"Christine," he hissed as he broke away from her lips and nibbled on her ear.

She kissed his bare shoulder, her tongue flicking out in a long, lazy trail. Transfixed by her gesture, he watched her as she bit him gently.

"You bit me," he said obtusely.

"A love bite," Christine panted. "Oh, how I've wanted to bite you right there from the moment I saw you in your costume."

"Honestly?" The idea was a bit tantalizing and a bit frightening, with a slight edge to frightening.

"Honestly," she growled before she did it again.

The second time hurt, and Erik drew his arm back to make certain she hadn't drawn blood. Erik looked at her and considered biting her back.

"Bite me," Christine said, as though she'd read his mind.

"Oh. Uh."

Christine wrapped her arms around his neck and smashed herself against him with such force that Erik nearly fell over. Once he stabilized himself, he picked her up and watched as her hair fell over her shoulders.

"I'd rather kiss you," he said as he laid her down and rested beside her.

With an easy smile, Christine caressed his ear. She looked at him with the same respect and love as when he wore his mask, which made him realize something he'd never considered: Of all the times he'd imagined them lying together in his bed, not once had his visions dared to picture her accepting him without the mask.

Their soft kisses continued, slowly turning from innocent to desperate, fevered kisses. Erik knelt above Christine and fumbled with the buttons on her dress until he had her beneath him, his hand cupped over her breast, her bare stomach against his.

Each time Christine exhaled, his excitement rose to a fevered pitch. The longer they kissed, the more restless she became, and soon her hips ground against his in the sweetest torment he'd ever known.

"Christine," he said raggedly, barely able to catch his breath. "I won't be able to stop."

"Me neither," she groaned. She kissed his shoulder and then his neck.

"Are you certain?" he questioned.

"Yes," she answered. Her hands were at his trousers. His mind threatened to implode as her delicate hands released his manhood. "Are you certain?"

He couldn't answer, and by the sound Christine made when she felt him in her hands, he didn't need to answer.

"Lay on your back," Christine whispered.

"Wh-why?" Erik questioned.

Christine gently pressed on his shoulders until he obeyed. "I want to know you. Intimately," she said, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Erik couldn't bring himself to speak as Christine helped him out of his trousers. He had no idea if he could wait long enough to please her, or if his body was normal and acceptable to her eyes.

As her hand rested low on his belly, he could do nothing more than close his eyes and hold his breath, willing himself to hold back as she combed her fingers through the sparse covering of hair that fanned across his abdomen. How wonderful her hands felt on him, just as he'd imagined.

And then her innocent touch turned undeniably intimate and his hips rose from the bed. It was little more than a feathery light stroke down his shaft, but aside from his own hands, no one had ever touched him—least of all there.

Opening his eyes, Erik took Christine's hand and showed her how to touch him as he turned on his side and petted her hips and soft belly.

"Just like this, Christine," he managed to speak.

-o-

Christine couldn't believe how soft his skin felt in her grasp. For something hard as steel, she expected his manhood to be rough like his hands.

"I must touch you," Erik said as he kissed her neck and face. He inched her skirt up her legs and touched the inside of her thigh. "Christine."

"I want you to touch me," she uttered, surprised she could find her voice.

He stroked her gently with the backs of his fingers, each soft touch creating an exquisite ache. She squirmed, her knees spread, body demanding relief.

With a smile, Christine grasped Erik's hand. "Just like this, Erik," she whispered as she drew his fingers to her dewy warmth.

One touch set her on fire. Christine gasped, her legs quivering at his touch. Releasing his manhood, she tossed her head back and succumbed to his rhythmic caresses until the twist of pressure she'd felt growing between her legs released and she cried out, her legs coming together around his hand as her body pulsed with waves of pleasure.

Christine inched her way beneath Erik and pulled him into her grasp, her legs cradling his hips. He smoothed her hair back as she grasped him again and led him to her entrance. Before he could thrust into her, she lifted her hips and drove him in to the hilt, leaving them both gasping for breath.

"Have I hurt you?" Erik breathed in her ear as he rested deep inside her body.

"No, no, you feel…wonderful," she whispered. The pain she expected as her virgin barrier broke never came. Instead, she felt complete, womanly, as though this was exactly as she should have felt.

"I knew you'd be gentle," Christine said in Erik's ear as he moved his hips and filled her. She'd never realized that this part of her that he now filled had ever been empty, that the places inside of her he'd brought to life had ever been dormant.

Together they moved, thrust for thrust, heartbeat for heartbeat. Tangled, complete, lost in their mutual desires. Erik placed his hand beneath Christine's body and pulled her closer as he slowly made love to her.

"Don't hold back," Christine panted. "I want all of you."

Her words sent Erik over the edge. He thrust harder, faster into her until his back arched and he grit his teeth. He buried himself deep and paused, exhaling hard against her shoulder.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered in her hair.

Christine caught his tone of voice, heard the melancholy in his words. It reminded her of how despairingly he'd said her name when she had removed his mask, how utterly hopeless he'd seemed in that moment as he sat on the steps and faced away from her.

"Mine and mine alone," Christine whispered in return. She held him tighter, kissed the side of his face. "My love."


	28. The Early Bird

Rose28

Erik envisioned a night of sleeping wrapped in each other's arms; soft breaths on his face, satiny skin against his, murmured words of affection throughout the night. He rose from the bed and brought Christine a glass of water and a washrag, which he'd read were the proper items to bring to a woman after a intimate encounter.

Once he returned to bed, Christine cuddled up close and kissed his lips. The world was at its finest.

A half-hour later of delusional perfection and he could no longer stand being forced to lie on his side. His back ached, his arm had fallen asleep beneath Christine, and her hair tickled his shoulder, which he couldn't scratch without disturbing her. Romantic bliss proved quite irritating and uncomfortable.

As to keep from disrupting their perfect love nest, Erik slowly attempted to remove his arm from under Christine, but his constant squirming caught her attention.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you moving?"

Erik frowned. "I apologize," he said, not looking her in the eye. "But I can't feel my arm and haven't felt my fingers in at least twenty minutes."

Christine immediately moved. "Good, because my shoulders are sore and I can't sleep on my back. I thought for certain we'd be trapped in this position all night."

Once they had arranged themselves, Christine placed her hand on Erik's chest, and he watched her eyes grow heavy.

"You look like a dream," he murmured as she drew circles up and down his midsection.

She gave him a lazy smile and kissed his shoulder as he smoothed her hair back from her forehead. It transfixed him, her lips against his flesh, and his breathing turned to soft moans. He couldn't decide if he wanted to keep his eyes open and watch, or close them and feel her tongue lave his neck, butterfly kisses up to his cheek until she found his mouth. An innocent touch turned to passion as she inched closer and draped her leg over his.

"Christine?" he questioned as she straddled his left leg.

"This night deserves repeating," she said between kisses.

Erik grabbed her hips, felt the smoothness and warmth of her thigh between his. He'd never experienced such sweet agony as he had with Christine positioned above him, her breasts against his chest, her hips close to his but not close enough. He wanted to grab hold of her shoulders and toss her on the bed, but it was too delicious of an opportunity to waste. More enticing than feeling her submit to his passion was to savor the hardened tips of her breasts drag against his flesh, to feel her writhe above him, her stomach brushing against his, the triangle of dark hair between her legs tempting and teasing his manhood.

Christine grabbed his wrists when he gripped her tighter. She brought one to her mouth and kissed the sensitive skin at the heel of his hand.

"Such skilled hands," she said as she pressed her lips to his fingertip, her tongue hot and inviting. Her lips parted and his finger slid past her teeth. He watched, barely able to breathe as she locked her eyes on his gaze and sucked his index finger.

"Wh-where have you learned such exquisite…ness?" he gasped.

Christine kissed his wrist again. "Your library contains Greenberg's 101 Seduction Techniques, and I found a rather dog-eared copy of The Absinthe Guide to Passion by Mad Liz—"

"You've been in my library?"

Christine raised a brow. "Why, yes."

Erik knew his eyes had glazed over. "Christine, I'm in love with you."

She smiled before she sank into his embrace and kissed him again. "I want to try page 128 of the Absinthe Guide."

"Page 128?" Erik questioned. He'd never made it past page seventy.

"Yes," she breathed in his ear. "The wild stable of monkeys."

Erik swallowed. "The wild…stable…of monkeys?"

"Yes, unless you think it's too soon?"

"I don't think it has ever been too soon to attempt a wild stable of monkeys," Erik said as he locked his arms around her.

Christine giggled. "No, I do suppose you're correct. We may have the time to try page page 22 of the Greenberg guide as well."

"What's page 22?"

Christine smiled seductively. "You'll see," she promised before she captured Erik's lips against hers.

-o-

_Meanwhile, back at the ranch…aka…the Opera Populaire…_

"Would you please stop attempting to molest me?" Raoul de Chagny bristled as a man with gold nipples brushed up against him for the umpteenth time. "I thought Hannibal was over!"

Firmin walked up in his hideous costume and clapped Raoul on the back. "It seems all the trouble with this Phantom is at an end. We should be able to enjoy the Bal without him causing any trouble."

Andre sidled up alongside Firmin. "We wouldn't have to fret over this if you'd invited him."

"Horsefeathers," Firmin raspberried. "Invite a murderous maniac?"

"Actually, he never murdered anyone. He nearly murdered La Carlotta with one of those canvas scenery apparatuses when our drunken crew was off stealing liquor from under our noses."

"That is the past!" Firmin responded. "I have given Madame Giry the only key to the wine cellar. She promised me that it was safely stored in her bosom."

The two stopped to reflect a moment before they sighed. As disgusting as it was to picture them dressed like barnyard animals and fantasizing about Madame, Raoul was at least hopeful that the rumors of Firmin and Andre sharing a bed were probably false.

"It's time to celebrate. Three months of relief," Andre sighed.

"And delight."

"No more notes."

"No more ghost. Isn't that so, Vicomte?"

Raoul yawned, thinking now was not the time to inform the opera house managers that he'd taken the liberty of adding Erik Lu'oar to the guest list.

"I'll be by the punch," he said before he walked off.

"Drink a toast!" Firmin shouted. "To your health!"

-o-

_Fours hours later…In the Phantom's Lair…_

"I think," Christine panted. "That I will die."

"Indeed," Erik sighed as they continued to pet one another.

"Of massive amounts," Christine sighed.

"Massive."

"Massive," Christine agreed. "Stable monkey sex."

"God bless the stable monkeys."

"Yes," Christine moved her hair away from her face. "I never would have taken you for the ticklish type."

"Nor you for the aggressor."

"Yes, well, the world of dance is an eat or be eaten world. One cannot be a wallflower or a doe-eyed innocent standing in the wings and expect greatness."

Erik nodded. "This was…"

"Perfect."

"And slightly frightening."

Christine rested her chin on Erik's chest. "Only because you were holding the book upside down."

Erik laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Now what, Christine? Anywhere you go…"

"What time is it?" she questioned, thinking it would be nice to have an hour or two of rest before the celebration.

"I would rather not move."

Christine took it upon herself to look for his pocket watch, and once she discovered the time, she grabbed Erik by the arm and attempted to yank him from the bed.

"It started a half-hour ago!" she gasped.

"Well…"

"No 'well'. You must dress, I must return to my room and fix my hair. Oh, I don't want to know how my hair looks! But I must dress. Where should we meet? Inside? Yes, that's perfect. I'll meet you on the stairs. Oh, I knew those monkeys were trouble!" she said before she took off with Erik struggling to button his pants and follow her.


	29. A Thorn with the Rose

Rose29

Christine entered the festivities and discovered Raoul and Piangi partaking in a punch drinking contest. La Carlotta stood nearby with a look of disgust on her usually haggard and unpleasant face while Meg stood on the other side of the table bouncing up and down and clapping her hands. Christine had a creeping suspicion that no one noticed her squeals of delight or applause as much as they noticed her jiggling bosom. And, Christine thought, if she hadn't just left her masculine lover's bed she would have questioned herself for falling victim to Meg's neckline.

"Name?" the attendant at the entrance questioned.

"Christine," she replied.

"Christine…"

"Daae."

Had he forgotten her amazing performance which had only taken place months ago? Why, she was practically La Christine.

"Party of two?"

"Yes…well…one for the moment. But there will be another guest."

"A Monsieur Lu'oar?"

Christine beamed. "Yes, Monsieur Erik Lu'oar. He's a composer, a very talented and worthwhile—"

"Please proceed."

Christine entered just as Piangi surrendered to Raoul de Chagny, reigning punch champion. The opera singer clapped the vicomte on the back, hiccupped, and sobbed how much he had always loved the patron.

"First the golden nipples, now this," Raoul muttered as Christine approached. He put his drink down once he noticed her. "Where is your date, Christine? Surely he is attending."

"Surely."

"May I ask where he's at, Little Lotte?"

"He shall be here momentarily," she said, hoping that she was indeed correct. Since it had taken her a mere forty-five minutes to dress and an additional hour to fix her hair, she hoped that he, as a man, could toss on his costume, pull on a pair of boots, and wait for her…somewhere.

Christine stood on the tips of her toes and glanced around.

"Looking for him?"

She felt slightly embarrassed that they hadn't decided where they would meet.

"Perhaps I should search for him."

"Like a wild goose chase," Raoul mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

Raoul sighed. "Christine, are you certain he exists?"

"Oh, yes." Was she ever! Pages 17, 22, and 345 of the Greenberg love manual and a double whammy of delight in the Absinthe guide had her eyes glazed and her heart jumping in delight.

Christine, who had apparently blacked out in bliss, was suddenly jostled by her old childhood companion.

"Stable monkeys," she said loudly enough to garner a look from La Carlotta.

Raoul stared at her a moment. "Would you care to dance while you await your beloved composer?"

Christine bit her lip. "One dance," she agreed.

-o-

"Sir, there are no swords allowed at the Bal Masque celebration this evening. Therefore I must request that your surrender your sword at once."

"I decline," Erik replied firmly yet impatiently.

"Monsieur—"

"No man touches my sword."

The attendant visibly bristled. "I have no desire to handle your weapon unless it's sheathed, good sir." He tapped his list of attendants with his finger and glared at the defiant guest. "Moving on, sir. Your name, if you will be so kind."

"Erik."

The attendant stared at him. "Erik…?"

"Yes."

"No, sir, I'm afraid I need a full name."

Bile rose in the back of Erik's throat as he shifted his leather folder from one arm to the other. "Lu'oar," he coughed.

"My apologies sir. Leroux?"

"No," he said through his teeth. "Lu'oar."

"Amor?"

"Lu-OAR!" Erik shouted. His voice echoed through the marble corridor, making both men and several guests awaiting entrance to cringe.

"Ah. I see it now. Your lady has already arrived," the attendant said, but to no avail.

Erik stalked away before the attendant finished speaking, his every intention set on entering through a different door.

-o-

"How is that you aren't a stumbling drunk, Raoul?" Christine asked as they swept through the ballroom. They'd danced through two songs instead of one since Christine had yet to spot Erik. She was beginning to worry that he had decided to stay in his lakeside lair rather than enjoy an evening of entertainment, drinks, free food, and what would certainly result in a ram versus cock fight between the opera managers once the absinthe was opened.

"Simple," he answered. "I cheated during the drinking contest."

"Cheated?"

"There were two punch bowls. Piangi drank a very different concoction than I did. In fact, I feel as though I could dance all night."

"Ah." Christine really hoped he wouldn't. At least not with her.

"Yes. How I do enjoy a good tango."

"And who doesn't?" She laughed.

"The tango is nothing to mock, Christine," Raoul replied sternly.

The song came to an end, they clapped politely, and Raoul asked Christine if she would like punch, which she declined—given her newfound knowledge. Another song had started when Meg skittered up, her breasts still bouncing and a feather from her mask nestled between her ample cleavage.

"Good evening," Meg said to Raoul.

"Good evening," Raoul replied to Meg's cleavage. It appeared as though a beacon had transfixed his attention and threatened to smother him within the valley of her pert, ample bosom.

Christine fought to stay away from the threat of Meg's breasts by thinking of Erik, her lover, naked as he knelt over her.

"Would you care to dance?" Meg asked Raoul.

"Boy howdy!"

Raoul immediately abandoned Christine and took Meg by the hand. She watched as the pair disappeared down the hall, wondering exactly where the vicomte planned to take her for a night of dancing.

With a sigh, Christine resorted to walking around alone. She spotted Madame Giry—who looked less drunk than Piangi—and decided to say hello to her ballet mistress when her way was blocked.

"Joseph," she said to the stage hand looming over her. "You startled me."

"Mademoiselle," he said with a lusty grin.

Christine shifted her weight and glanced around again, searching desperately for an exit. "How are you?"

"Very well. And you?"

"I'm searching for someone, actually."

"Ah. Would you care to dance while you wait?"

"I'm afraid I've already danced," she said lamely.

He grabbed her hand and grinned again as he pulled her onto the dance floor and placed his hand on the small of her back. "But not with me, my dear."


	30. Pressed Rose

My apologies for the tardiness! Two of my manuscripts were accepted and will be out in print by (cross your fingers) the end of the month. If you like Vikings and high sensuality please check my website in the next few weeks for more details.

Without further ado…

Rose30

Raoul had only begun to suggest to Meg the wonders of the horizontal cha-cha when an imposing figure dressed in blood red appeared through a closet door.

"My God!" shrieked Meg. "It's the janitor of the opera!"

Raoul, sensing how wrong Meg was, clapped his hand over her perfect bee-stung lips while the other rested on her ample bosom. "Not quite, my amorous little crocodile."

She shrieked with laughter, which made her chest jiggle. "You're a clever little weasel, Monsieur!"

Raoul cleared his throat. "I believe it is the Phantom of the Opera."

Meg leaned forward. "No, no. His sword appears much bigger than Mother has explained to me in dark stories of the night."

Both the Phantom and Raoul stared at her momentarily.

"Excuse me," Raoul said once he recovered his senses. "Have you lost your way?"

"In my theater?"

"Ah. Right. I had forgotten. You know everything about your theater, I'm sure."

The Phantom glared at him before he marched away.

Meg sighed dreamily. "Mother was right," she said. "Some men are better at leaving than coming." She patted Raoul's hand. "You're wonderful at both, weasel darling."

Her words caused The Phantom to stop and turn on his heel. He reached into his leather folder and shook a handful of papers at Meg's breasts.

"Now see here!" Raoul shouted. He shook his fists in defense of Meg's bosom, which in no way recoiled from the papers or the Phantom's hand, Raoul noted.

"Take this to the maestro. Tell him to stop this dreadful tune and play this at once," The Phantom commanded.

"You don't like paper faces on parade?" Meg pouted. She batted her eyes at The Phantom and stuck out her bottom lip, which distracted the Phantom from her bosom momentarily.

"Hypnotizing things, aren't they?" Raoul questioned with a knowing wink.

"Deliver my music," The Phantom huffed.

Raoul glanced over the first page and nodded. "Your theme music, I take it?"

"You're very fortunate I haven't killed you," The Phantom replied before he gathered his train and stormed off.

Raoul watched him round the corner and scratched his head, not quite seeing the reason behind Christine's affection. With a shrug, he turned and found Meg leaning on his arm.

"Shall we?"

He smiled. "Yes, we shall. Again and again and again."

-o-

"Oof!"

"My apologies."

"Ugh."

"I'm terribly clumsy."

"Great googly moogly, woman! How can you be a dancer and continue to trample my toes?" Joseph Buquet grumbled as he pushed Christine away. She backed into a man headed toward the drinks, who told her to watch what she was doing before he stomped off.

It had taken two songs to finally leave the dance floor, and once they stood off to the side she searched for Erik, who was still nowhere in sight.

She chewed on her bottom lip and sighed. If he didn't appear in ten seconds she would return to the lobby and see if he was in line.

Joseph grabbed her arm. "This way."

"Excuse me?"

"It's time for a refreshment, Mademoiselle."

"I'm not thirsty, but I thank you kindly."

"Nonsense. You look quite parched." He tugged on her arm and dragged her forward.

Christine dug her heels into the ground, which only squeaked. "I'm fine right here, Monsieur."

He started to protest until Madame Giry sidled up beside them.

"Joseph Buquet, unhand Miss Daae."

"She needs a refreshment."

Madame lifted her cane and immediately the stagehand stepped back. "You are through here."

"I am through here," he answered obediently.

"Mademoiselle Daae doesn't need a refreshment."

"Mademoiselle Daae doesn't need a refreshment."

Madame lowered her cane and ushered Christine away. "You look ravished."

"You mean ravishing?" Christine questioned.

"I mean what I said. You looked ravished." Madame pulled Christine so close she could smell the absinthe on her ballet instructor's breath. "Tell me, Christine, have you seen a Turkish man in hiding? You cannot keep them all to yourself."

"I haven't seen one. I swear, Madame. I'm waiting for Er—"

"Ah. Yes. Very well then. Carry on, my dear." She gazed toward the stairway. "It is time."

"Time?"

Before Madame answered the music started and Christine, along with the rest of the crowd in attendance, turned toward the stairs. The lights dimmed and the music changed. Holding her breath, Christine watched as Erik appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Oh, hell," Firmin said under his breath.

Christine glanced to her right and saw him standing several feet away. He hurriedly finished his wine and appeared to search for Andre.

"Three months of delight," she heard him say. "Pah!"

Andre appeared beside Firmin and together they stood and watched The Phantom descend the stairs to the beat of the music. Carlotta snickered until Erik drew his sword. With a gasp, she stepped back and held her tongue.

"Fondest greetings to you all," Erik said as he reached the middle of the stairs. "Did you think that I had left you for good?"

Madame grumbled something about finding Meg and another bottle of wine and slipped off, leaving Christine alone in her mesmerized state across from Carlotta and Piangi. She clasped her hands and gazed lovingly at her Red Death lover until she felt a pair of hands on her shoulders.

Erik turned away from her and threw his leather folder onto the floor. His finished opera spilled across the stairs. Christine started to step forward and stand at Erik's side but she was held back.

"Stay where you are, Christine," Joseph said in her ear. "Stay precisely where you are."

-o-

Raoul and Meg were at the end of the hall when Raoul touched his hip and realized his sword was missing.

"Oh, hell," he mumbled. "Meg, my precious little crocodile, we must return to the festivities."

"Oh, but my dearest weasel you promised me that you would bring me the angel of chocolate sauce."

"Yes, yes, hush Meg."

She pouted once more. "Don't you like the sound of my voice?"

"Why of course I do. But, my sweetest reptilian princess, you must understand: You're far too lovely to spend your time simply rambling on and on incessantly."

"Incessantly? But I have no brothers or sisters."

Raoul furrowed his brow. "Never mind. Make haste. I don't like being without my sword, Meg. It takes away my manhood."

They returned to the festivities to find Christine struggling with the stagehand in the corner.

Raoul gritted his teeth. "No one wrestles Christine in the corner," he growled like a rabid weasel.


	31. Dirty Deeds

I've been bombarded with career stuff but I promise to finish this and the rest of my stories. It might be a little bit slow because I just found out my next story is due in August. (NDBRs: That's Son of the Sea) Yikes! Anyhow, have mercy on me please! I'm seriously writing as fast as the Muse speaks and my fingers move.

Rose31

"Did you see that?" Firmin huffed. "He tossed the whole damned opera on the floor! And the pages aren't numbered! We will have to sort the entire opera! The entire opera!"

Several stagehands, who had drunkenly emerged from the back of the theater, began snatching up bottles of liquor, which Madame Giry was prepared to wrestle them to the death over. Meg rushed to her mother's side to defend the old crone even though one swing of the ballet mistress' cane kept the stagehands several feet from the bottles.

While Andre and Firmin argued and Erik kept La Carlotta at bay, Christine struggled helplessly in the corner, her protests drowned out by the rowdy bunch fighting for booze. Her dress was rather poofy, and since Joseph was standing on her hem, she couldn't knee him in the groin.

Just then, when she was certain he would drag her away, Raoul appeared and grabbed Bouquet by the shoulder.

"Unhand the diva at once!"

Bouquet stepped back and looked Raoul over as though gauging how long it would take to snap his aristocratic neck. With a reluctant nod, he straightened.

"All I wanted was a dance."

Raoul placed his arm over Christine's shoulder. He puffed out his chest like a proud peacock. "The lady's dance card is filled for the evening. Now, go away."

Christine, who was too stunned by her ordeal, merely stared in horror and waited for the stagehand to leave. With a nod at the rest of his drunken friends, he disappeared—but not before every guest in attendance stared at her.

"That brat is-a nothing but trrrrrrouble," La Carlotta trilled. She opened her fan and stormed away with Piangi waddling behind her, muttering something about his costume just making him look fat.

Christine barely noticed La Carlotta's exit. With Erik standing across the room, nothing else mattered, no one else existed. It was only them suspended in dramatic eternity, which was really only about thirty seconds. But there they were, in an empty room.

With Raoul de Chagny, who still held his arm over her shoulder. He was talking but Christine had no idea what he said. Erik continued to stare at her, his lips parted. His mouth breathing was no longer adorable. His hardened stare was no longer charming. The intensity of his presence left the room in utter silence.

She visibly shrank, wished she could melt into the floor. She wriggled out from beneath Raoul's arm and sprinted toward him, but it was too late. Erik wound up as much of his train as he could and took a small step back. In a cloud of smoke the floor opened and he vanished.

"Ooh! Pretty!" Meg clapped before the smoke made her cough.

Several feet from where the hole in the ground had opened Christine tripped over her enormous dress. She closed her eyes, slid across the floor, and fell into the opening, which closed over her seconds later.

Dazed, confused by the darkness, she remained on the floor. When she glanced up, she saw at least ten other Christine's with tangled hair, giant, poofy dresses, and confused expressions.

She was certain she'd hit her head.

-o-

He considered abandoning her, but he couldn't. That damned Vicomte had plummeted after Christine—his precious little lover whom he needed to protect—and his neck was in need of a Punjab.

Rope in hand, Erik stared through a small space between mirrors and waited for the lovers to discover each other.

Christine was first to recover from the fall. She blinked, primped her hair, and then stood.

"Hello?"

"Christine?"

The Vicomte had fallen and then rolled, his legs tucked beneath him. Erik watched him comb his hair back before he strolled out, looking quite dignified for a man who'd yelled "Mommy!" as he hit the floor.

"Raoul?"

Erik's jaw tensed and he hoped she appreciated seeing her little friend for the last time.

"Yes, it's me, Christine."

"What happened? Why are you here?"

"I was afraid this was another of Bouquets tricks and so I followed you."

He hadn't quite followed her. Erik had seen the Vicomte step on Christine's dress, trip her, and then tumble after her. It wasn't a plan but the act of a clumsy oaf.

"You shouldn't have followed me."

"I believe his trap may have swallowed up that Lu'oar fellow."

Erik held his breath, his eyes narrowed.

"No, Raoul," she sighed. "Erik did this on his own."

"He built a trap door in the middle of the dance floor?"

"I believe so."

"But how was the trap set off?"

She shrugged. "He must have stepped on the release."

Raoul scratched his head. "Interesting. I can't imagine how a whole opera house full of people have walked across the floor and not one of them has ever set off the trap. It's a mystery never fully explained." He paused. "Who am I to judge?"

"Don't judge him," Christine said solemnly. "You must return to the celebration at once, Raoul. Don't worry about me."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Christine. There's a madman on the loose. You cannot tell me Bouquet merely wanted a dance with you this evening. He wanted something more."

Christine began searching the mirrors for an exit and Erik stepped back. He instantly felt a hand on his shoulder, but before he could lasso the intruder placed the end of her cane in the middle of his back.

"He's no threat to you. Let them go at once. We must speak."

Erik shook his head. The cane jabbed harder against his spine. She'd paralyze him before he could deny her request. With a nod, he followed her and hit the release, which would free the two captives and lead them to a stairway in approximately thirty seconds.

-o-

Madame Giry didn't say a word for a long time, and had her eyes not been open, Erik would have sworn she'd passed out.

He hadn't been in her apartments for many years but nothing had changed. There were still stacks of letters on her dresser and old photographs by her bedside.

"It seems you have an enemy you never expected."

"Everyone I meet is my enemy."

She rolled her eyes. "You're not old enough to be bitter. You only earn it when you've taught the same dancing farm animals for years and they continue to disappoint you no matter how many bottles of wine you consume, how many tears you've shed, how many times you've screamed pirouette at the top of your lungs. Dance, you cross-eyed ninnies, dance!"

Erik cleared his throat, interrupting her wine-induced sermon.

"I digress." She took a seat and hit his knee with her cane, which he assumed meant he should do the same. "Perhaps I shouldn't say this, but Bouquet needs to have an accident."

He stared at her.

"One involving an embarrassing incident with one of the sheep, preferably."

"Kill him?"

Madame shook her head. "I didn't say kill him. You know what to do."

"Is this why you brought me here?"

She sighed. "To keep you from killing a boy who saved Christine at the ball? Why, yes."

"I don't need his help," he growled.

"Perhaps not. But Christine did."

"She belongs to me."

"As you belonged to the gypsies? No choices, no freedom--"

"Enough."

He stood and walked to the door, tired of their senseless conversation.

"Erik."

He lifted his chin but refused to look at Madame, despite expecting a cane to the back of his head.

"Not everyone you meet must be your enemy."


	32. Rosy Distraction

I hope this makes up for the delay. Thanks to Jaxboo for her help!

Rose32

It came as a surprise to Erik when he returned to his apartments and found a very unhappy Christine waiting for him. He'd expected to return to darkness and the cold, uncaring presence of his pipe organ where he would sit and stare at the keys. Step by step, floor by floor, he imagined himself dead before the organ and covered in a layer of dust.

Somehow, Christine's presence did nothing to brighten his mood. He wouldn't be discovered in a hundred years as a skeleton. He'd be found murdered at the hands of a woman scorned.

With one icy glare from her anything but angelic eyes, he considered returning to Madame Giry's room to see what bottle of wine she was currently chilling. But it was too late. He'd been seen, and as much as he wanted to walk away, he knew he couldn't leave unless he intended to find a new home. After all, she'd proved her unwillingness to leave once already.

"Erik," Christine said as she sat on his bed with her arms crossed. She was still wearing her overly poofy pink dress, but her hair looked as though it could have housed a whole family of weasels.

Feet dragging, he attempted to avoid eye contact. "You shouldn't be here," he muttered.

"You're right, I shouldn't."

He looked away from her and frowned. If he'd had an ounce of sense he would have told her how grateful he was to see her, how much he regretted storming away.

But if anything, he was bull-headed and tired of always being the one who had done wrong. He risked a glance.

"Where is your lover?"

Her eyes narrowed. At any moment he expected her to leap from the bed, tackle him, and pull his heart out through his chest.

"I'm not sure I have one any more."

He inhaled sharply and stared at one of the many mirrors which remained hidden by draperies.

"Fair enough," he mumbled.

She sprang up. "Oh, so now it's fair?"

"Excuse me?"

"You arrive late, taunt people who could give your career, and then you don't even speak to me before you disappear down a trap door?"

"I—"

"Don't argue!"

"I'm—"

"We shared passion, Erik, like I've never felt before. Or was I the only one?"

"Christine—"

"Madame Giry was correct when she said men only want one thing and it comes from the pages of a book I should have never opened. But I ignored the warnings on the Greenberg Guide just for you, threw caution to the wind in order to discover the true meaning of love behind stable doors, brought myself to the very limits of my sanity for JB's Extended Positions and More."

"Who?"

"It's for Scorpios. You wouldn't understand." She sighed heavily. "Why? That's all I want to know and then I'll leave you be, since it appears you want nothing to do with me."

Her tirade continued, leaving Erik with no other choice but to gawk.

"You're a man, you have your own organ. I trust you've spent countless hours playing, pounding away as though the rest of the world didn't exist. Why should anything change?" She looked at him, her face crumpled, which Erik wasn't prepared to see—indeed, he was ill-prepared for both anger and tears. "Why did you walk away from me? Didn't you…feel…it?"

"I—"

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you—"

"No more excuses! It was bad enough to arrive alone, but do you realize how terrible it was to dance with Joseph Bouquet? His mother must have been a goat and I bet his father smelled of elderberries."

And suddenly Erik stepped forward. "What did you say?"

"I said his mother—"

"No. You danced with him?"

"He gave me no choice. You saw me with him, did you not?"

She'd said enough. Livid, Erik stormed away and considered tearing the room apart. He hadn't seen the stagehand dance with Christine. He'd found the Vicomte, the little mindless twit, with his arm around Christine. Raoul de Chagny seemed like the least of his worries.

"I'll kill him."

Christine scampered to his side and grabbed his arm. Her face was immediately sobered. "Perhaps you should sit down. Take off your boots. May I unsheathe your sword?"

It was tempting, but he shook his head. "Not now. I must kill him."

"You're not thinking rationally, Erik. Now, please, there are two pages in the Scorpio Guide that are stuck together. Wouldn't you like to discover what's between those pages?"

"The backward horseman," he mumbled, holding his hand over his lips. "I am thinking rationally, Christine. I should have killed him during Il Muto but I had a chest cold."

Instantly she placed her hand on his chest. "Come with me. We'll make certain it never happens again."

He sighed, his desire to kill slowly crushed by his desire to see what Christine could do about his chest. Still, he was alarmed by her transformation, wary of the enraged woman he'd happened upon.

"Christine," he sighed as he pulled her hand from his chest. "How did you find your way down here?"

"I can find my way down anywhere." Her eyes twinkled.

Clearing his throat, he nodded. "Right. What happened to your…friend?"

"Who?"

"The Vicomte?"

She blew a raspberry. "I had forgotten he's deathly afraid of the dark."

Erik made a mental note of the information and nodded again.

"I had to practically carry him from…well, wherever it was your trap door opened. He thought I was Meg until…" She glanced at her chest. "He discovered I wasn't. Do you think there's something going on between the two of them?"

"The weasel and the crocodile?"

"Pardon me?"

"No, absolutely not."

Christine frowned and took a step back. "I apologize for intruding upon your home. I should return. It's late, you cannot sleep in your costume, I cannot sleep in mine." She feigned a yawn. "I do hope I don't fall asleep midway up the stairs and crack my head open."

His shoulders dropped. "I should not have left the Bal Masque," he mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

He should have known a mumbled apology wouldn't do. Inhaling, he started over. "I said I shouldn't have left the Bal Masque. I'd kill any man who harmed you—and I'd never forgive myself."

Perched on the tips of her toes, she kissed him softly. "Perhaps such extreme measures are not always needed."

Her hands unbuttoned his shirt, distracting him at last. "Perhaps," he agreed merely to end the conversation.

"There are other ways, aren't there? Other ways to settle disagreements?"

"Yes." He brushed another kiss past her lips as he embraced her.

"Promise me," she whispered, "that all you say is true."

Her fingernails grazed his chest, trailed down to his stomach toward the prominent bulge in his trousers. The palm of her hand rubbed against him, encouraged him to abandon his thoughts. He could barely stand as she coaxed him, brought him fully to life.

As her mouth closed over his, he groaned and lifted her from her feet, crushing her body to his. He tasted her mouth, her throat, her shoulder while his fingers worked to remove her dress.

He lowered her onto his bed, felt her legs wrap around his hips, and hoped she would forget he hadn't answered.


	33. Protecting His Little Bud

M rating goes into effect here!

Rose33

Erik did an amazing job of keeping Christine's lips and tongues occupied. He whispered in her ear and told her exactly what he wished to do to her, planting kisses along her wrists and her neck. No wonder his manuals were so dog-eared, she thought as he caressed her stomach with his broad hand. Soon enough, with kisses and promises, she'd forgotten what she wanted to talk about.

"Oh, I am definitely one with the raging fires and all-consuming passion," she sighed as she linked her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

He knelt over her, his arousal pressed against the inside of her thigh. "Bodies entwined," he murmured. "Perfectly fit together."

"Oh, yes. Yes! Yes!"

His head jerked back. "Did you…?"

"No, not yet. But I'm ready." She unfastened each button and shimmied his trousers down his hips. His clothes were soon piled atop hers where they lay forgotten.

"Christine, I love you," he sang softly as he gazed into her eyes.

"Erik," she whispered back. She ran her finger along his ear, saw the desire in his pale eyes. She wasn't sure if it was physical or emotional need, but she granted him reassurance that both would be sated. "I love you too."

He fit his mouth over hers and slipped his hand beneath her. As he held her close, he penetrated her with one long, swift stroke and settled deep within her body. His eyes remained open, his gaze meeting hers. With a soft kiss to her forehead, he moved inside of her, stroked her gently at first, then faster, harder. She cradled him between her thighs, pressed her heels against the back of his legs and urged him deeper, wanting to feel each inch of him.

She needed him, not only as a lover but as her companion. Liberated, uninhibited, she ran her fingers through his hair and murmured how much she cared for him, how she'd always wanted to know him. At last the time was right, finally there were no more games and no more deception. They had always been connected, but now they were one.

Each thrust became more urgent, each moan turned louder, filled with increased desire. She begged him to not hold back, to give himself freely—just as he desired from her. It sent him over the edge, drove him so deep she felt her body tingle with release. Her legs trembled, her body limp beneath his. Barely able to catch her breath, she savored his final kisses, the way he ran the heel of his hand over her nipples until she was completely satisfied.

"Stay with me," he requested. He laid his head on her chest and closed his eyes. "Stay with me forever."

She kissed the top of his head, wanting to stay with him, but not in the basement. The humidity would do nothing for her hair, she was certain of it.

"We belong here, together."

So much for silence, she thought as she closed her eyes and hoped a kiss was answer enough.

-o-

Christine was able to adapt. Erik was certain of it. She would learn to forget the sun, the way the clouds hung white in the sky, the feel of daytime. She would love the night, savor each sensation. Intrigue would draw her to darkness, and the hidden promises he would show her would keep her content for a lifetime.

It was nothing short of perfect. Their lives were etched like stars in the sky. Nothing could stop destiny.

For the majority of the day he walked around in an ignorance-induced fog while Christine napped. He busied himself with revising old compositions and taking an inventory of his wine cellar. The wine cellar reminded him of Madame, and thoughts of the ballet mistress reminded him of the Vicomte.

Just what was the little handsome twit doing, he wondered. Off tying a new bow in his perfectly groomed hair? Ravishing a clueless, buxom Meg? Staring longingly at his own reflection? The possibilities were endlessly long and boring, which is why Erik felt his gut twisting. That idiot knew something—and as much as it threatened to kill him, he'd have to feign a civil nature in order to uncover the truth. Then he could kill the fool.

He glanced at Christine, who was asleep on her stomach, her mouth wide open. He smiled lovingly at her angelic though somewhat drool-covered lips and considered wiping the spittle from the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, Christine," he sighed.

She wouldn't appreciate him killing her childhood friend. True, there was a chance she wouldn't know it was him. He rolled his eyes at the thought. If anyone, even a mouse, ended up dead everyone whispered. It had to be the Phantom of the Opera. It wasn't as though some accidents were the unfortunate result of hiring a crew of drunken idiots. They had to blame the Phantom.

He flexed his hands as he paced. The Vicomte could easily be shrugged off, especially since he seemed fixated with his precious crocodile. But, Erik still wanted to kill Bouquet for laying his filthy hand on Christine. Nothing would ever change his murderous rage.

Violence was the perfect answer to a life hounded out by everyone, met with hatred everywhere. Never a kind word from anyone, no compassion anywhere.

He glanced at Christine again and knew it was no longer true. She was different. In all of his life he'd never met anyone quite like her before. She expected more from him, which he realized was exactly what he needed. For once someone had faith in him, which only rekindled the faith he had in himself. He wondered if it made her perfect or just as faulted.

All he knew for certain was he loved her and she loved him.

Slowly he stepped forward and studied his beloved Christine. "Believe, believe in me. Believe that my life can change, that I'm not stuck in vain. We're not the same, we'll be different tonight," he sang softly. "The impossible is possible tonight. Believe in me as I believe in you…"

"Tonight…" Christine whispered. She turned over and grasped his hand. "What are you singing? A new composition?"

He shook his head and sat beside her. "It's what I feel for you…for us. When I first took you by the hand and led you through the mirror I thought for certain you would understand…as long as I kept you by my side and allowed you to hear no other voice."

"Why would you…? I don't understand."

"I thought it was the only way. If you could only see the way I love you, then you would understand why I feel this way about our love. That is why you must stay here with me. I must protect you, which I failed to do at the Bal Masque. If you were harmed in any way, I would never forgive myself. You mustn't ever be far from—"

"Lay down." She tugged on his arm until he did as she requested. "I've heard you rustling papers and stomping about for the past hour. You've run yourself ragged, my dear, and now I must insist that I care for you." She leaned over him and rested her chin on his chest.

"No, Christine—"

"Yes, Erik." She smiled warmly and gazed into his eyes. "I insist. Tell me where your pantry is located and I will make you supper."

He hadn't known it was possible to tempt another with the promise of comfort. Not sex, not hours of passionate kissing and caressing, but merely a lazy evening.

"You cannot leave, Christine."

"I won't leave you. It hurts me each time you think I will leave you. Perhaps in the past you have been unable to trust others, but you have my word. I'm here with you."

He kissed her knuckles and nodded. Now that he was in bed he felt tired again.

"Stay here," he said as he wrapped his arm around her.

"It is warm and cozy, isn't it?" She smiled and snuggled closer. "I can imagine this bed beside a window where the sunlight streams through in the morning, and the sheer curtains dance in the breeze. Can't you see it? A large oak tree, and a bluebird singing only for us."

"I will sing to you."

She chuckled softly. "Are you jealous of a bluebird?"

"Protective."

"I've never had a man protect me from a bird before. You shall be the first."

"I will protect you from anything."

Her fingers grazed along his chest. "I have no doubt. My brave, passionate lover, defending his little chorus girl."

"I'm serious."

She was quiet for a moment. "I know. I only wish…"

"What do you wish?"

"Nothing. I'm quite content here."

And that's how she would stay as long as she remained at his side. However, if anyone dared to harm her? He only hoped that his good intentions could be backed up with the proper actions.

Lyrics twisted from "Tonight, Tonight" by the Smashing Pumpkins, "Down Once More" from ALW's The Phantom of the Opera, and "If You Could Only See" by Tonic.


	34. Poppycock Seeds

Rose34

Three days after the masquerade, Firmin and Andre finally had the Phantom's opera sorted. It was already implied in a rather demanding fashion that Christine was to play the lead.

Together they browsed through the manuscript, collective brows raising at the suggestive nature of the opera.

"This will be a hit!" said Firmin.

"This will ruin us!" Andre howled.

They stared at each other a moment.

"A duel?" Firmin questioned.

"I prefer Roman-style wrestling."

"Well, I much prefer Turkish-style. Especially with olive oil."

"Delicious."

"Wrestling," Firmin mused. "Nude?"

Andre had a twinkle in his eye. "Naturally."

Before they could undress one another and partake in the game of their lives, there was a knock on the door.

"Oh, poppycock," Firmin sighed.

"Indeed." Andre opened the door to find a rather red-faced Bouquet. He waved a note into the opera mangers' faces.

"Not five minutes ago I found this laying on the catwalk." His voice lowered, eyes narrowed. "It's from…the Phantom."

Andre visibly gulped as he snatched the note from the stagehand's grasp. He and Firmin exchanged glances before Andre opened the envelope.

He furrowed his brow and looked at Bouquet. "Are you certain it's from the Phantom?"

"Of course."

"But…there's no seal."

"Excuse me?"

Andre showed Firmin the envelope. "The death's head, you see. It's missing."

"Oh, poppycock!"

"Indeed." Ignoring the lack of death's head, Andre opened the note and read. "Dear…sirs." He stared at the letter a moment. "For one, 'sirs' is misspelled. For two, I don't understand why he didn't refer to us as messieurs."

Firmin shrugged. "He's a strange fellow, but normally he's such a good speller."

"A marvelous speller," Andre agreed. "With a vast and impressive vocabulary unlike any I have seen before—and believe you me, I have seen quite a few in my day."

Firmin held out his hands about twelve inches apart. "Vast."

Andre crossed his arms and nodded. "'Tis the things dreams are made of…poppy—"

"Precisely."

Bouquet appeared confused and shrugged. "Perhaps he rushed and had no time to cross his T's and dot his I's."

"It appears he didn't," Andre replied. "Such a shame to see his grammar lacking all of a sudden. It's the only part of his usually demanding, often threatening, and completely snide notes I ever enjoyed."

"Indeed," Firmin replied. He pursed his lips and quietly added, "Poppycock."

Andre continued reading the note. "It appears the Phantom wants to hold either auditions for the part of Don Juan or he wants ammunition. I have no idea what this word is, and therefore I must guess." He paused. "I believe he wants ammunition."

Firmin went white. "Now it shall be war upon us both! Oh, Andre, we simply cannot allow The Phantom of the Opera to have ammunition. He's dangerous enough with his bare hands, his stark white mask…and…"

"Charm." Andre's eyes glazed over. "Hideous, yet appealing."

Firmin did a double-take. "No! His cape! Why, it could kill with a simple flip."

Bouquet spread his hands. "Well, gentleman, what do you want to do about this grave matter?"

-o-

Christine started to itch for sunlight and blue skies. She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until Erik woke and wrapped his arm around her.

"How long have you lived here?" she questioned, her voice still sleep-filled.

He thought a moment. "Several years."

"How many years?"

He pursed his lips. "Twenty-three."

Her eyes went wide. "You've lived down here for twenty-three years."

A smile crept onto his lips. "Why, yes. Twenty-three years."

"Without windows? Plants? A flowerbed?"

Trepidation flashed through his eyes. "If I wanted windows, plants, and a flowerbed, I would have them. But, as you can see, I find such frivolous eccentricities to be unnecessary."

Christine looked at him hard. "Why, Monsieur, you cannot trick me with your very large…" She paused, gaze sweeping down his body. "Words."

He tilted his head to the side. "You will love it here as I have loved it here. These walls enrich sound, and when you hear me play my organ for you, I promise there will be tears in your eyes and song forever in your heart."

She nodded. "Yes, I suppose it will."

She glanced around and wondered if she should leave the discussion for later, but she couldn't bear the thought of constant darkness. The candlelight, romantic for now, would surely lose its special ambiance. Perhaps she would never tire of Erik's organ, but he could play it anywhere.

She clasped her hands. "I need my cape for tonight," she said brightly.

He sat up and reached for his shirt, which was on the floor by the bed. "It's warmer than you think down here. I will see to it, just for you."

Her nose scrunched. "You treat me like a princess, but I will still need my cape for the winter chill."

"The winter's chill?"

She nodded. "For our walk."

"Our walk?"

"Yes, through the streets at dusk."

He swiftly pulled on his trousers and stood. "I was not informed of this…activity."

"Of course not. I hadn't thought of it until this very moment. Doesn't it sound delightful?"

"I had planned an evening of seclusion and privacy, uninterrupted."

Christine's toes curled beneath the blanket. "Seclusion and privacy. Yes, well, perhaps later in the evening after we have seen the river and enjoyed a cup of coffee."

He didn't reply. As Christine finished speaking, he disappeared into the other room without a word of protest or acceptance.

-o-

"Something must be done at once!"

"At once!" Andre agreed.

"Immediately!"

"Indeed!" Andre said quite amiably.

"Such as?" Bouquet questioned.

Both men paused and exchanged glances. "Such as…" Firmin prompted his business partner and Turkish wrestling friend.

"A confrontation," Andre said with a snap of his fingers.

"Face-to-face—with no wrestling of any sort."

Bouquet nodded. "When and where, gentleman?"

They furrowed their collective brows.

Firmin hesitated. "In…here."

Bouquet swiftly shook his head. "He won't come."

"That is a problem," Andre said. He rubbed his chin with his hand. "One I have thankfully not experienced."

Both Bouquet and Firmin looked at him quizzically until the stagehand sighed. "We should confront him soon."

"Soon," the two managers agreed. "And as a representative of the opera house and someone who knows its every nook and cranny, you, good sir, are the perfect candidate for this mission."

Bouquet flexed his hands. "It would be an honor."

Andre stepped forward and cocked his head to the side. "You're not frightened?"

"Of what?" Bouquet questioned.

"Of what? Poppycock!" Firmin said for good measure.

Andre elbowed him in the ribs, then glanced back and winked in apology. He turned toward Bouquet. "But surely you must be aware of the dangers, Monsieur. We are dealing with the opera ghost."

With a hearty laugh, Bouquet grinned. "Me? Afraid of a ghost? Well, that's nonsense."


	35. Pansies

If you're reading my other stories skip the A/N. Sorry about the long delay. Should have another chapter done soon. And I mean soon.

A/N: My long-awaited Viking erotica is finally available. Check out my profile for details. If you like my writing style I'm sure you'll really enjoy both Heart of the Bear, and Dreamwalker, the two titles I have in the anthology.

Rose35

Bouquet nearly knocked the Vicomte to the floor as he rounded the corner.

"Where are you heading in such a hurry, you smelly little monkey?" the Vicomte asked as he pinched his nose closed.

"I am going down."

Meg walked up and wrapped her arm around the Vicomte. "On who?"

"Excuse me?" the stagehand questioned.

Raoul pushed Meg aside. "Never mind. Meg, go into your room and wait for me."

"Oh!" She bounced up and down. "I've been naughty again without even trying! Hurry along, precious little weasel. I have the paddle ready."

The Vicomte took Bouquet by the arm and led him down the hall. "Where are you going?"

"On a very important mission."

"What sort of mission?"

With a sigh, Bouquet checked the hall to make certain they were alone. "There has been another note."

"Good God."

"Yes, good God indeed."

"From whom?"

Bouquet stared at him blankly. "Who the hell do you think?"

"There are at least five hundred people in here, all perfectly capable of writing."

"The Phantom, you imbecile."

"What did he say?" Raoul inquired, gravely concerned.

"He said he would like to challenge you to a duel. In the graveyard. At noon."

"It's a quarter 'til noon."

"Noon-thirty," Bouquet corrected.

"Excuse me?"

"You should go. Go now, and leave me alone."

"Right." Raoul snapped his fingers. "Swords or pistols?"

"Oh, for God's sake bring both."

Raoul waited until Bouquet was gone before he dashed down the hall in the opposite direction and tore off his cravat. Tossing it to the floor, he pushed his sleeves up and proceeded to run down the stairs, yelling to Chrisine that he had an urgent message.

-o-

Christine walked toward the organ and held her hands up. Making a square with her thumbs and index fingers, she squinted and gave a grunt.

"Perfect."

Erik glanced up from his composing but didn't say a word. He'd remained silent for almost a half hour.

Turning on her heel, she marched toward the other side of the organ and proceeded to do the same thing. "Mmmhmm. Perfect."

Again Erik glanced up. He furiously scribbled on the paper at hand and dropped it onto a pile of other papers.

Annoyed that he ignored her, she twirled her hair around her finger and began to hum to herself.

"It will be absolutely lovely. Pink, pink, and more pink."

"Excuse me?" Erik grumbled.

"Oh, carry on with your work and never mind me."

He stared at her, his lips forming a straight line. With a sigh he gathered his paperwork and proceeded to walk into the bedroom, which Christine hadn't planned on him doing. Gathering her skirts, she ran after him.

"Don't go in there! I must visualize decorating the most important room in the whole…" _Dreadful, dark, dank and fire-prone basement. _"The whole house."

"Decorate?" He seemed surprised but somewhat pleased.

"It's only natural that I, as the woman, would decorate."

"What's wrong with the décor?"

"Oh, hell," she said under her breath.

"What's wrong with the décor?"

"Is there décor?" she questioned innocently.

Several papers fell to the floor, which he ignored. "It says…artistic."

"It says pigsty," she grumbled.

"Pardon me?" he growled.

Even though she loved it when he growled, this didn't sound like a growl of love. It sounded more like a growl of anger. She carefully retracted her words.

"It could use a bit of tidying up and…well, feminine charm."

"It could use a bit of tidying up," he confirmed.

"And feminine charm," she said firmly. "After all, I am feminine and I have…" She leaned over ever so slightly and traced her neckline with her fingers. "Charm."

He shifted his weight. "Charm," he said under his breath.

_No wonder Meg received whatever she desired_, Christine thought to herself. _She was overflowing with charm_.

"I was thinking about curtains," Christine said before Erik lost his train of thought.

"Curtains? I have curtains."

"Well, yes…for the walls. But I was thinking about curtains for windows."

His jaw twitched. This was worse than pulling teeth.

"There are no windows."

"Ah, yes, I had noticed that. It was starting to…bother me."

"Bother you?"

"Depress me?" she tried again.

"You are depressed?"

Aha! A weakness. Christine frowned and batted her eyes. "Why, just this afternoon I was thinking about banging my head against the wall."

"That's completely asinine."

"Well, thank you," she replied dryly. She folded her arms and turned away. "I will go on decorating without another compliment from you."

She started to turn away when she heard screaming. Male screaming. High-pitched, terrified male screaming.

"Raoul," she said under her breath.

"Is there a cat in heat?"

"No, I believe it's a Vicomte in trouble." She scrambled to the door with Erik on her heels. Once they reached the hall they heard splashing.

"What in the—"

"Trap door," Erik answered.

Christine rolled her eyes. "Really, do you need trap doors all over the place?"

"To keep out unwanted vermin? Yes."

Erik reached the trap door first and held his arm out, keeping Christine at bay.

"Is he…dead?" she asked when she didn't hear him splashing about.

"No, I think I'll be fine!" Raoul shouted.

Christine stepped forward but Erik kept her back. "It's ghastly," he said. "Stay where you are."

"Is he hurt?"

"No."

"Then what is wrong?"

"He's…unclothed."

To this news Christine perked up. "Oh…really?"

"Christine!" Erik snapped. "Gather all of the towels you can find and hurry."

"All of the towels?" she questioned.

"Indeed. He's that naked."

With a shrug she turned away and headed back into the lakeside apartments. She heard Erik asking Raoul what he was doing in the basement and paused to eavesdrop.

"I came to answer your letter and your offer to a duel!"

"Duel? I beg your pardon?"

Christine paused with her back to the wall and continued to listen. Brow furrowed, she wondered why Raoul would say such things.

"The note! Bouquet found it just today."

"I never sent a note and I never challenged you to a duel."

"Yes, I assumed you hadn't. After all, I doubt you had a proper education which included proper swordfighting techniques, eh, old fellow? And, well, Bouquet is a smelly, rat-faced liar."

"What else did the note say?"

"I have no idea. Now please, help me out of the water. It's freezing and I fear my hair will turn green."


	36. Garden Variety Mystery

Told ya I'd have more soon:-)

Rose36

The Vicomte sat in one of Erik's old lacey shirts with a towel wrapped around his head.

"Well, that whole bit with the water was completely unnecessary, don't you think?" he asked as he surveyed the dreaded and secretive lair. He held a cup of tea—untouched—in hand. He had reservations about drinking what the Phantom offered him considering Erik had suggested he tie the rope around his neck and haul him out of the water.

"What do you want?" Erik grumbled.

"Now, now," Christine said before the two men began verbally sparing. "My dear, we have a guest."

"Intruder," Erik corrected.

"Actually, I'm more of a messenger," Raoul corrected.

"Then relay your message so that you may be on your way."

Both Christine and Raoul glared at Erik.

"Your hospitality is quite simply an unparalleled delight," the Vicomte spat. He glanced around the lair. "Interesting place you have here, Monsieur Lu'oar."

"Raoul, what is this business with the note Joseph Buquet had?" Christine questioned.

"Ah, yes. The smelly ape said he'd found a note from him." He nodded toward Erik. "And he says he hasn't written a note."

Christine glanced between the two of them. "Well, perhaps he wrote a note, but he didn't send a note. He's been here the entire time. We both have. Haven't we?"

"He doesn't need to know my whereabouts."

Raoul furrowed his brow. "Well, Bouquet was being quite secretive, and since no one has seen you since the Bal Masque, I decided to take it upon myself to see how you fared, Christine."

"You are truly the brother I never had," Christine said with a bat of her eyelashes. She nudged Erik in the ribs. "I've always wanted a brother, you know. And a very loving father. Very loving. And now I have you."

Erik did a double-take as Raoul stood and wandered around the lair, his curiosity piqued by the expansive library.

"Let's review the facts, shall we?" Raoul said. "We know there is a note of mysterious whereabouts. We know Joseph Bouquet is a rat-faced, lame-footed, lily-livered donkey conspiring against someone for something. We know you're not a ghost but in fact a man living in a lavish if poorly decorated basement."

Erik took a step forward but Raoul put his hand up and continued speaking. "We know Madame Giry is a lush and that the opera managers are completely unskilled, wealthy dolts with tendencies toward inappropriate sexual innuendoes. And we know beyond a reasonable doubt that Meg Giry has the greatest rack in the opera house."

"And Erik has no curtains and windows," Christine added.

"What she said," Raoul replied as he fingered several books. "I don't know what to make of it all. Honestly, it makes no sense.

"There is a man conspiring and a note of mysterious origins," Erik said.

"Indeed." Raoul sighed heavily and shook his head. "If only we had better clues in which to solve this mystery. Believe you me, this whole mess is making my head hurt."

"Your head would hurt with a simple mathematical equation."

"Meg's been worried about my equations leading to a little Vicomte Junior," Raoul mussed.

"That's not equation. That's an ejac—"

"Erik, I don't think it's safe for us here. We should flee into the countryside and start our winery."

"What do you know of grapes?" Erik asked.

"I like yours," Christine offered as she innocently bit her lip. "Or we could travel to India. Or purchase a nice home several miles from the opera house. One with nice windows and lacy curtains."

"Lacy like this shirt. May I keep this?" Raoul asked.

Erik ignored the question. "Nobody is leaving, Christine. This is my home, my domain, my castle and I will be damned if anyone pushes me out. No, my dear, we will not leave."

Christine heaved a sigh. "Oh, good. We're staying."

"Nobody will leave…except Bouquet." Erik stared at Raoul. "Are you finished?"

Raoul took down several books from the shelf. "You don't mind if I borrow some of your more literary pieces, do you?" He held them close to his chest, thinking The Sage Woman's Guide to Self-Love and More would come in handy once Meg grew tired of waiting for him to return.

Christine started to take the damp towel from him. "May I ask, why were you nude when we found you?"

"For speed, of course. One must undress in order to run properly."

-o-

"So…" Christine said once Erik saw Raoul on his way. "You believe Bouquet is behind this nonsense?"

"Who else? Piangi? Carlotta? The brain mass between the two of them is smaller than a cockroach."

"I hate roaches. I do, however, like—"

"I'll kill him." Erik flexed his hands. "I'll make him suffer for days, weeks even. I need nails, rubber bands, a nail file…and a boy band."

"You _do_ intend to torture him."

"Yes, I do, indeed. And then I will kill him. It will take several days."

"It's as though you've put thought into this."

Erik cleared his throat. "Not at all. It's merely my creative mind at work."

Christine feigned a yawn. "I'm tired. Why don't we return to bed and think about this in the morning?"

"No. There is no time."

She untied the laces on the front of her dress. "And did I mention it's very warm down here?"

"I thought you always said it was cold down here."

She shrugged and allowed her sleeves to fall down her shoulders. "At the moment, I'm very, very warm. Hot, in fact. Fiery hot."

His desire to kill Bouquet was immediately extinguished by Christine flashing a seductive smile. She licked her lips and sauntered forward, twirling her hair around her finger.

"We have all day tomorrow to think with clarity," she said as she placed one hand on his chest. "Why ruin our evening with thoughts of Bouquet?"

He struggled to keep his momentum, but Christine's feminine charm presented an unmovable roadblock, especially when she took his hand and brought it to her side.

"Do you have wine?" she asked.

"Yes, but you've proven you cannot hold your wine."

"Only a glass…to make the evening…interesting." She spoke against his lips, allowing her mouth to skim against his. She felt him quiver, his tongue searching for hers.

At once he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply.

"Curse you," he said between hard kisses. His hands roamed along her back, drawing her closer until he crushed her bare breasts to his chest. "You are pure evil."

With a sly grin, Christine led him into the bedroom and unbuttoned his trousers. She heard him groan as she nibbled on his earlobe. "Perhaps you should discipline me."


	37. Cemetery Rose

Rated M for a reason. I know at least three of you are doing fist pumps now. NDBRs: the last bit changed a little.

I know I haven't updated in two weeks and I'm really sorry. I'm writing 8 different stories, so forgive me if I don't have an update every few days. I do try really hard to keep up, but you must remember that I'm human, I have two small children, it's baseball season, and I have editors who think I work on serious writing all day long.

Rose37

An hour and a half later Erik planted one final kiss on Christine's nose and watched her eyes blissfully close. Her angel face was still cupped in his hand, her massive head of hair strewn about the pillow in wild abandoned, just as they had been for the evening.

"Bodies entwining," she murmured. "Defenseless and…"

A little more talkative than he would have hoped, but as Erik rolled onto his side he was far too content to worry about what Christine said.

"Oh, how perfect it would be to rest my head upon your chest."

"Yes," he agreed, fixated by her firm ivory breast that the blanket failed to cover.

"Sunlight upon the stark white linens, the smell of spring in the air, the sound of our brilliant children playing in back of the cottage…what a perfect life." She closed her eyes and stretched her hands over her head, drawing her bosom upward. He stared unabashedly, the stirring in his loins which had delivered them to the seat of passion finding itself with a second wind.

"Perfect," he whispered.

His thumb ran over her pebbled nipple and her body responded. He turned to is side and circled the hardened peak with his finger until she sighed in delight and moved closer.

"And a garden, and a large orchard, and a stream with a little boat we can row. Or perhaps a quaint lake with lots of fish in it. I'd like a boat, wouldn't you?"

"Boat," he said, reduced to caveman intellect as she kicked at the bed sheet until it covered only her hips.

His lover was stretched out, her stomach concave. Greedily he ran his hands along her ribs, swirled his fingertips around her bellybutton. Such a soft, warm palate of flesh, he thought. Such a work of art craving his artist's hands.

One hand cupped her small breast as he draped his leg over hers, feeling his power over her at a primal level. She willingly submitted beneath him, her legs slightly parted, soft breaths leaving her lips as she turned her face and kissed his cheek.

"What a wonderful life," she whispered.

His hand skimmed down her flat stomach, slid beneath the blanket, and caressed her inner thigh, his mind barely able to comprehend that she was his—willingly. He kissed her hungrily, needing every ounce of her being to join with his.

Soft, dreamy sighs turned to low, urgent moans as he explored her body. The pleasure was instantly returned, which only heightened each sensation. Within moments he was fully aroused, and by the way she writhed beneath his long fingers, he knew she was as well.

Christine guided him to her womanhood and released a soft cry as he filled her. With her fingers pressing into his shoulders, she cradled him between her thighs.

Her hand cupped his face, the warmth of her flesh a welcomed substitution for his mask.

"Open your eyes," she whispered. "Watch what you do to me, how you make me feel."

When he gazed down at her, he barely recognized her face. She was more beautiful, more alive than ever. He felt her nipples graze his chest with each thrust, felt her legs lock around his hips, keeping him near her.

"I love you, Christine," he said before he kissed her hard.

Her body trembled and she held him tighter, clinging to him. At last he felt her walls contract around his manhood and he could not hold back a moment longer. Together they unraveled, arms tangled around one another, lips caught, tongues caressing in mutual bliss.

"Anywhere you go let me go too," he whispered as he smoothed her hair back from her face.

Christine smiled and closed her eyes. "That's all I want from you."

-o-

After several more hours in bed, Erik decided it was time to confront the stagehand. With Christine still asleep, he dressed and donned his cloak. With one last look, he ascended the opera house stairs.

It would only take a moment to kill Bouquet. When Christine awoke, they could enjoy a peaceful supper, free of roving eyes and meddlesome stagehands.

-o-

Christine woke to the sound of a door closing. She instantly sat up in bed and gazed around the open room, finding only the hideous monkey with its cymbals. The little beast stared at her with its enigmatic gaze, and though she knew it wasn't real, she lifted the bed sheet to her neck and faced it away from her.

"Erik?" she called.

There was no answer, save for her echo.

Once she dressed, she tiptoed into the other room and found the pipe organ untouched.

"My angel of music," she mused. "Father once spoke of an angel…"

An idea hatched in her brain. It had been a long time since she'd paid a visit to her father's grave. But, now that she'd found love, there was no better opportunity to leave her father flowers and tell him of her wonderful lover. Of course, she wished to keep it to sensible topics her father would appreciate, such as he was good at playing the organ and managing finances. That he could send her into toe-curling ecstasy seemed inappropriate graveyard conversation.

Dressed, she skipped up the stairs and entered the stable where a gray haired man gave her a peculiar look, either because she was dressed in a rather low-necked gown or because she'd clearly stolen a handful of roses from a vase in the hallway.

"To my father's grave," she announced.

"Excuse me?"

"I would like to go to my father's grave."

"Who'n the hell is your father?"

Taken aback, she pursed her lips and thought a moment. "Surely you've heard of Gustav Daae!"

"Nope. Doesn't sound familiar."

"But he's—"

"Which cemetery?"

"I don't believe I know the name of it. I've always called it To My Father's Grave."

"What do the statues look like?"

"Well…they're…somewhat…"

"Naked?"

"Yes." She blushed.

"St. Olga of Perpetual Longing. Into the carriage. I'll drive you at once."

She happily seated herself and straightened her dress.

"Ouf!" cried the coach driver.

Christine glanced back but couldn't see past the side of the carriage. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine, Christine."

She sat back and grinned to herself. "I'm ready whenever you are."

The coachman stepped into his seat, dressed in a rather elaborate cape and a scarf which covered his face.

"You've changed rather swiftly."

He glanced back. "Where to?"

"Don't you recall? St. Olga of Perpetual Longing." She sniffed her roses. "To my father's grave."

"Yes, of course."

"My, your voice has changed," she said.

"The better to speak with you, my dear." He slapped the reins against the two horses' backs and they set off through Paris.

"Yes, of course. The better to speak with me." She turned her head and held her breath. He also smelled as though he'd swallowed half the wine cellar.


	38. Trouble in Bloom

Okay, what's really strange is that I uploaded and then added my author notes at the bottom. Then somehow I ended up posting One Week here. Sorry.

Gabrina

Rose38

The catwalks were empty, the theater abandoned. Erik furrowed his brow and attempted to recall the day of the week. He was almost certain it was Saturday. Or was it Wednesday? Damn it, there should have been someone to threaten! He clenched his fists and wound his way up and down the narrow walkways. The opera house was a veritable graveyard.

Frustrated, he stalked toward the managers' office and opened a small peephole in the wall only to discover Andre and Firmin embroiled in a tickling match. One of them—for he always had the two of them confused—had a ten franc note pinned to his overcoat. While the two were caught in a fit of laughter, Erik reached through and plucked the franc from the dolt's overcoat, deciding it was a bonus of sorts for his pain and suffering of seeing the two grope one another.

Once he departed and entered the hallway, he saw Raoul lumbering down the hallway and singing, "Oh, what a beautiful mornin', oh what a beautiful day. I got a wonderful feelin', ev'rything's goin' my way."

Naturally he paused when he saw Erik and offered a wave. "You're late."

"Excuse me?" He was irritated that the Vicomte no longer cowered in fear.

"It's noon-forty-five. You're fifteen minutes late for our duel at St. Olga's of Perpetual Longing. Ah, St. Olga's. I always leave there feeling so…refreshed. Those statues, Monsieur. They are good. You should never be late for freely exposed breasts, even if they are made of stone."

"If I'm late then that means you are also fifteen minutes late."

"Correct." He turned around in a full circle. "But I can't find my sword. Or did we decide on pistols?"

He glanced at the sword hanging from the Vicomte's belt and rolled his eyes. "We never decided because I never wrote the note."

"True. Since you weren't the one who wrote the note I bet this really got your goat."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Why are you rhyming?"

"Is it a crime to sometimes rhyme?"

"It will lead to a crime."

"Oh?"

"My hands around your throat."

Raoul nodded. "Fair enough. So…if Bouquet wrote the note and wanted you in the graveyard for a duel…where do you suppose he is?"

"Most likely the cemetery." Erik turned on his heel and headed toward the stable with Raoul following closely behind, which caused Erik to question him.

"Two heads are better than one, that's what I always say," he answered. "Although Meg begs to differ. She said I've got a more than adequate head. And I dare say she's more than adequate at giving—"

"I want nothing to do with your head."

"Good, because Meg would be jealous. Though she is slightly turned on by the thought of Firmin and Andre engaged in Turkish wrestling."

Erik turned away. "Shall I spell it out for you, you ignorant fool?"

"Isn't ignorant and fool more or less the same thing?"

Erik turned to face him. "Does the word Punjab mean anything to you?"

"Why, yes. I believe it's in India. Have you ever been to India? I've always wanted to travel there.

"Shut up and go away, you irritating twit!"

The Vicomte remained undaunted. He looked past Erik at a white horse casually eating from a feedbag.

"Ah, there he is now, my most favorite gelding. Well, I shall partake on a pleasant ride through Paris and out to the countryside. Good day to you, Monsieur."

With that he took a running start and leapt onto the horse's bare back. The horse whinnied, reared (in a way that made Raoul de Chagny look completely masculine and slightly attractive to Erik's astounded eyes), and galloped onto the city streets.

Grumbling all the way, Erik stepped into the saddle of his favorite black horse and galloped toward the cemetery, even more irritated now that he was traveling behind Raoul toward St. Olga's.

-o-

The carriage circled around the cemetery twice while Christine patiently waited in the back with her now wilting flowers in her lap. She stared longingly through the iron fence, attempting to locate her father's mausoleum but to no avail.

Once again the carriage made a slow turn around the corner, and Christine sat forward.

"May I see Daddy now?"

The driver made no reply. Christine furrowed her brow.

"Excuse me? I'd like to visit Daddy's grave before the sun sets."

"Sit back and be quiet."

Appalled, she stood up and nearly fell from the carriage as one of the wheels hit a rock. Thrust forward, she braced onto the driver's shoulder to keep from tumbling out. He turned to her, grinned, and pulled her into the seat beside him.

"Joseph? What are you doing here?"

"Using you as bait."

Her heart raced, but she used her time on the stage to her advantage and feigned calm. "Bait for what? Surely you don't expect the bones of my dead father to resurrect themselves in a gnarled army of the undead, do you?"

"What? Er, no. You know exactly who I'm waiting for."

"I most certainly do not! I am a soprano, not a genius."

She had him confused, at least temporarily. Her downfall was a triumphant smile.

Bouquet grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her face toward his. "Where is your lover, Christine?"

"I don't have a lover. I…um…love myself."

He looked intrigued, but just as swiftly his anger returned. "You think you're quite clever, don't you? Ah, but you've underestimated me, Christine. Everyone has always underestimated me. Why is that?"

"Because you're a drunk?" she offered.

"Because they see me as a drunk! Ha ha! But I am more than a stagehand. Do you know what else I am?"

"A…um…juggler?"

"No, I am a vengeful entity and a scoundrel."

"I never would have guessed!"

His eyes narrowed. "Don't play coy with me, Miss Daae. The Phantom will come for your corpse just as swiftly as he'd come for his living woman."

"Actually, that's not true. He's really not so enamored with me. It's more my voice, and really there's two dozen other chorus girls he could make his student. Really, I'm just another voice." She laughed humorlessly, fears overtaking her outward cool.

"You've tried my patience. Make your choice."

Her nose wrinkled. "What were my choices again?"

A/N: Why, yes, that was my tip of the hat to Patrick Wilson playing Curly in _Oklahoma_

I love the musical and I love Patrick Wilson!


	39. Dirty Situation

You'll see a word or two (or five, to be exact) borrowed from Cleolinda, who is responsible for the Phantom in Fifteen Minutes parody. Yes, I did email her a while back and ask her if I could borrow a little and she didn't have a problem with it.

For anyone who has ever taken this as high brow serious literature: I wrote this for fun and to include as much of the ALW dialogue/lyrics in here and twist them about—hopefully in a way that was funny and a little bit on the naughty side.

Rose39

"Afternoon," Raoul said quite amiably.

"Get out of my way."

Raoul was casually waiting at a fork in the road when Erik approached. St. Olga's of Perpetual Longing was within sight, which was all he cared about.

"I just witnessed a most spectacular sight. Out of nowhere, and seemingly for no reason, an elk appeared. Naturally, I followed it a while until the gates appeared and beyond them, the gracious, nude statues. I was reminded of Meg, which naturally reminded me of Christine."

"Fascinating." He looked beyond Raoul at the distant gates and cursed the falling snow. He'd hoped to follow the carriage and locate Christine, but there were far more tracks than he anticipated and the snowfall was making it impossible to distinguish the freshest ones.

"There are two entrances into the lady," Raoul stated.

Erik's eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"There are two entrances into Old Olga." He nodded toward the massive graveyard cloaked in white. "First, there is the front entrance which you see before you."

"Yes?" Erik asked impatiently.

"And then there is," his voice lowered. "The rear entrance."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Fine. Get out of my way."

"Experience, Monsieur," he said casually, "tells me that you should never leave one unguarded."

Erik paused. His horse snorted impatiently. "You wish to guard one?"

"I shall plug one, yes, with my presence." He pushed back his cuticles and straightened his lapels. "The question is…which do you prefer? The front or the rear orifice?"

Erik's eyes widened. "Perhaps I am mistaken, but you seem like the rear orifice plug to me, Monsieur."

Raoul cocked a brow. "Indeed. I shall ride swift as the wind and stand guard at the rear, and together you and I will save her!"

"I don't need your help," Erik seethed.

"Perhaps not, Monsieur, but once you've used a man's bath towel you feel the need to assist him in all manners." He tossed his hair, quite urgently, over his shoulders and looked with great determination toward the cemetery. "To St. Olga's Perpetually unguarded rear gates! Away, Buttercup!"

Again he mounted his unsaddled horse, appearing manly as ever, and road off yelling his battle cry. Erik was quite certain he'd caught a glimpse of ungodly erect nipples but swiftly banished the thought. Never was there a more masculine—albeit terrifying—sight than the Vicomte de Chagny riding away in his white shirt and close-fitting trousers. Once again, Erik found himself strangely attracted to the Vicomte, which he passed off as far too much exposure to the cold.

Erik took a deep breath once Raoul was out of site. Perhaps with all of the commotion that fool made, he'd push Bouquet toward the front and into view. He cracked his knuckles and heeled his horse. If a hair on Christine's curly head was out of place, someone was going to pay with their miserable and worthless life.

-o-

"Let me go!" Christine shrieked.

"All in good time, my precious, all in good time," Bouquet said in his smarmy, greasy-smiled fashion. He reached back to grope her and she shrieked again. "That's a good girl, Christine. Wake the dead with that voice of yours. No one will save you."

Christine viciously whipped her head from side to side and assaulted the stagehand with her hair. The unexpected thrashing of curls distracted him long enough for Christine to stand in the back of the carriage, but the wheels hit a bump as they entered the graveyard and she was thrown into her seat once more.

"Almost there," Bouquet said with a grin. He glanced ahead and then looked back at her as she lay sprawled out in the backseat. "Now, which way do I turn for your father's stinking grave, eh?"

Again she prepared to stand, deciding that death was more welcomed than his hands slithering down her body. She glanced around at the cushy snow, then looked at her poofy dress and figured she could easily leap from the carriage and safely land somewhere. Then, once she rolled to her feet, she could run screaming and someone would help her…wouldn't they?

She mustered all of her strength and courage and hauled herself to her feet, this time clinging to the door. She had no idea how Raoul made it look so easy as he stood and held the reins.

The carriage wrenched in a hard left-hand turn. The horses whinnied and she was nearly tossed from the back.

"What are you doing?" she screamed. "You'll kill us both!"

She glanced up and saw a white horse dash past in a blur. Or so she thought. Perhaps it was only a statue of a horse. Again the carriage made a hard turn which tossed her to the right, giving her no opportunity to glance back.

Her sides throbbed from being knocked back and forth, her head swirled with the constant motion.

"Stop!" she yelled.

"Never!" Bouquet laughed and pumped his fist in the air.

"No, seriously, stop! I think I'm going to be sick!"

One moment Bouquet was sitting before her, smiling in his usual perverted fashion. The next he was gone and Raoul was standing triumphantly in his place.

"Ah ha!" Raoul shouted. He looked at her and smiled like a school boy. "Good afternoon, Mademoiselle."

"Tree branch!" Christine yelled.

"Excuse! Oof!" Raoul pitched to the side and landed beside her with a heavy thud. She stared at him, mouth agape, before she heard Bouquet laughing to himself.

"Idiot," he sneered. "I knew he would attempt to save you and just as I suspected, he failed. Miserably. All the money in the world can't buy brains, now can it, Christine?"

She tapped Raoul's cheeks but he was knocked out cold. Frustrated, she glared at Bouquet and decided to once again play stupid. "What do you want from me?"

"You know it isn't what I want from you, but who. Don't pretend to be a fool, Christine. It's very unbecoming of you."

"He won't come for me. He doesn't know where I am," she replied innocently, hoping to God that wasn't true. She looked around, nervously searching for a hint that Erik was near.

"Oh, come now, Christine."

The carriage slowed as they approached her father's grave. She swallowed hard and frowned, hoping she wasn't about to join him much sooner than expected.

"He's very busy writing his music. You're merely wasting your time out here in the cold."

"And I suppose the Vicomte just fell out of the sky?" He climbed into the back and grabbed her by the arm. "All these years you've been a worthless little wretch crawling about the opera house. Well, Christine, you always wanted to be the star."

"Actually, I was quite content playing a slave girl with the rest of the ballerinas when a backdrop nearly killed Carlotta. That's when—"

"Oh, shut up and come with me, my dear." He attempted to drag her through the snow toward the waiting mausoleum, but she lunged forward and clung to the carriage. "It's almost show time. Let's see how well you play damsel in distress."

At the tips of her fingers was the Vicomte's sword.

-o-

The front entrance was barred with several heavy chains that no amount of illusion or deception could break. Nostrils flared, Erik paced back and forth, knowing that each second he remained was wasted.

His shoes crunched the snow as he grabbed his horse by the reins and stepped into the saddle. Somewhere in the distance, barely heard by the creak of leather, he heard horses whinny.

"Christine," he whispered.

His horse broke into a gallop before his heels touched the gelding's sides. He raced along the iron fence line and guided the horse through the open gates. Buttercup pranced past him and he pulled back on the reins.

"Where is Raoul?"

The horse snorted. Erik's eyes narrowed as he stared at the beast, wondering if its mane was naturally shiny or if Raoul conditioned it.

"Excuse me?" He felt ridiculous speaking to a horse, but no more absurd than he did speaking to his monkey.

It (the horse) shook its head to the right and gave a tail swish for emphasis.

"Over there?"

The horse whinnied.

"With Christine?"

The horse gave a listless sigh.

"Is she all right?"

The horse shook its head from side to side and urgently pawed the ground, which Erik considered gravely serious in equine dialect.

"Thank you." He paused and stared at the horse. "Do you understand what I'm saying or have all these years spent underground clearly turned my genius into madness?"

The horse merely blinked.


	40. Unlikely Thorn

Between preschool, rescuing some stray cats, a new job, and a lot of writing…I haven't had time to update a lot. There's only a few more chapters of Rose to go. Maybe three or four, actually. Anyhow, thanks for sticking around with me through this story—and EXTRA big thanks to all of you who supported my very first release. (FYI: I'm making a donation to the local humane society with some of the royalties since it suffered a recent fire—no worries—volunteers saved every living creature in there).

If you haven't bought a copy of the Viking Stones and want to know more, check out my website under Erika Kire and see the way cool reviews we received as well as the video on YouTube. If you like the vid, please rate it!

Thanks again for all of your support! This is a long chapter since I've slacked for so long!

Gabrina

**Rose40**

Christine scratched at the carriage, holding on for dear life as Bouquet attempted to drag her through the graveyard. In the back of her mind, she heard a familiar, slurred voice.

_"Use the force, Christine."_

"Wh-what?" She looked around, afraid that she was starting to hear voices coming from the squirrels.

_"I said use the force."_

"What force?"

_"Oh, for God's sake! Do I need to spell it out for you, you idiotic chorus girl? You have legs like a thoroughbred! Kick him where it counts."_

"You always said I had legs like a mule."

_"No, that was brain like a mule. Use the force, Christine! Use it!"_

Madame's voice faded away as Christine used the very last of her strength to pull herself forward. She planted her feet on the ground, closed her eyes, and kicked like a racehorse, a mule, and an emu combined.

"Bloody hell!" Bouquet moaned as he writhed on the snow. "What did you go and do that for?"

"A nice little girl like Christine doesn't appear to have it in her, does she?" Christine grabbed Raoul's sword and circled around the fallen stagehand. She tossed her head from side to side to move her hair away from her face as she stood over him. "No one ever suspects Christine."

"Excuse me?" he quavered.

"Christine is a weak little waif in need of saving, Christine will never amount to anything more than a chorus girl, Christine is met with hateful critics everywhere."

Bouquet began to tremble. "I never said anything of the sort."

"No, you thought for certain you could use me as bait, didn't you? You thought for certain I wouldn't be able to defend myself." She pointed the tip of the sword between his legs. "Answer me."

"No!"

The razor sharp edge came closer.

"Yes!"

Her eyes narrowed. "Well, now what do you think, you smelly drunk? Answer Christine under penalty of pain."

"Why are you referring to yourself in third person?" He inched away, gaze fixed on the sword in her hand.

"I have no idea, but if it instills fear in the very bottom of your wretched heart, so be it." She stood straighter, glared down the length of her sword. Behind her, Raoul groaned. "Everyone always underestimated me. They saw me as nothing more than an orphan."

"I've always thought you deserved a starring role."

"Christine doesn't care what you think. I know what I am…a rising star on the Parisian stage. Not you, not Carlotta, not a well-endowed chorus girl…no one will keep me from my dream." She momentarily came down from her cloud and glared at him. "Well, Monsieur, I hate to cut the fun short, but your joke has worn thin."

He looked at her curiously. "Why don't we consider this a misunderstanding?"

"A misunderstanding? Abducted, threatened, used to lure a music genius with the body of a god, and you think I should consider this a misunderstanding? No, Bouquet, you misunderstand the situation. It is time to make certain there is no longer confusion."

"I will never trouble you again." He attempted to scramble away.

"No, you will not. I shall feed your heart to one of Carlotta's dogs and we'll be certain of that."

"You wouldn't…"

"Why? Because I couldn't tolerate the blood or because I'm not strong enough to impale you with this sword?"

"Because you are…are…an...an…angel?"

"I am your angel of castration."

Bouquet went bone white. He glanced around, finding his back to a tombstone and no escape in sight. "We should discuss this rationally."

"There is no rationing now, Bouquet. You've messed with the wrong chorus girl."

"It's nothing personal."

"You've made it personal. Let me guess: You assumed chorus girls don't have feelings, that we care about nothing more than dancing in corsets or slave girl costumes, ten pounds of make up, and feathers for fifteen bloody hours a day. Well, Bouquet, allow me to clear up this misconception."

He nodded amiably toward the sword that threatened his family jewels.

"I don't want to be a chorus girl for the rest of my life. I'm tired of dancing in little chains and being ogled by strange, smelly old men. I want to be the star, and you, Monsieur, are impeding my progress."

-o-

Erik saw the carriage first and feared he was too late to rescue his beloved Christine. He jumped from his horse, allowing the beast to run away (which was much harder than Raoul made it look) as he approached the carriage.

And found Raoul knocked out cold with a twig in his blonde hair.

"Damn it," Erik muttered. He glanced around and saw a swirl of black fabric disappearing behind a tomb. "Christine?" he whispered as he stalked forward.

His hand tightly clutched the hilt of his skull's head sword. If there was a hair misplaced on her head he would kill Bouquet. If there was a single tear on her cheek, if there was a quiver in her bosom…death would come knocking without mercy. No one else was allowed to cause a quiver in that bosom.

"Oooh, my head," Raoul groaned.

Erik ignored the Vicomte and approached the sound of Christine's voice. Did he hear correctly? Did she quaver in fear? Did she yearn for his guidance?

"Christine!" he called out as he bolted around several tall statues of half-naked angels. He sprinted toward the sound of voices and found her in a complementary black dress. With a sword in hand.

"Christine?" he questioned.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Good afternoon. Just a moment, my dear." She turned back to Bouquet. "Now, as I was saying…"

"Allow me to defend you," Erik insisted. He stepped forward, sword in hand, completely prepared to rescue his damsel in distress. "Come away from him, Christine, before you become anemic with the stress of it all."

"Christine can defend herself," she snapped.

He skidded to a stop, his jaw slack. "Excuse me?"

"Christine can obviously defend herself." She faked out Bouquet with a jab at his inner leg.

"Why are you referring to yourself in the third person?" Erik questioned.

"I don't know! But I suggest you stand back before he bleeds on you."

His brow furrowed, his dreams of carrying her to safety suddenly dashed. "Christine, whatever this thing, this monster has told you…you are not a killer."

"Oh, I don't intend to kill him. Or do I? Hmm…Suffer, baby," she said through her teeth as she turned toward Bouquet. "Suffer."

"Christine!" Erik warned. She wasn't herself.

"Do you know what it's like to have everyone think you're something you aren't?"

"Yes, I have."

"Then you should want this as much as I do." She gritted her teeth and turned away, poised to stab Bouquet in the groin.

"Christine!" He bolted forward and reached for her sword arm, barely able to believe what he was about to do. "Not like this."

"What?" she snapped.

Somewhere in the distance Raoul moaned, a sound that was more sexual than agonized.

"You can't do this. I won't let you."

"But this solves all of our problems." She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. "He has been the core to all of our suffering. Once I dispose of him, we can live in peace…in our beautiful countryside home, with our six children and our lovely Basset hound and Irish wolfhound."

He glanced down at Bouquet and then back up at Christine. "We should discuss this."

From the corner of his eye, Erik saw Raoul stumble through the gravestones, his shirt untucked and his hands on his head.

"Where am I?"

"In Our Lady of Perpetual Longing," Christine answered.

"Dear God! I'm dead inside a woman! I'm far too young and aristocratic to die!"

Erik cleared his throat. "You're not dead." He gritted his teeth and added under his breath, "Unfortunately."

"What happened?" he muttered. "The last I remember, there was wind flowing through my hair."

"Well, you attempted to rescue me and—"

"Never mind." Erik thrust his sword into Raoul's hand. "Watch him."

"Wait. What?" Raoul stammered. "I have a concussion. I should be resting my injured head on Meg Giry's sweet, angelic, and cushiony bosom."

"I said watch him." Erik growled.

"Or that," Raoul mumbled as he reluctantly stood watch.

Erik whisked Christine away and walked some twenty feet—far enough for privacy but close enough to apprehend Bouquet should Raoul pass out.

"You can't do this," he said sternly. "It's not like you."

"Perhaps you don't really know me," she replied.

"I do know you." He kept his hands on her shoulders. "You're the only person I know."

_In the Biblical sense_, he thought of adding, considering he knew Madame Giry and—unfortunately—Raoul de Chagny. He didn't know what else to say to her, so he merely stared at her and frowned.

"I'm doing this for us. A threat to me is a threat to you and vice versa. Don't you understand that?"

"I could have—"

"Could have what?"

"Protected you," he answered lamely.

"As I've said, I can protect myself."

He bowed his head. "I see."

"Would you rather I succumbed to being tied up and molested?"

"Never." His stomach churned at the thought.

"Then what?"

"I don't know. It's just…"

"Just what?"

"I want to be a man for you."

She blinked at him. "Excuse me?"


	41. No Bed of Roses

Kudos to Jax for the Chrissyspeak suggestion.

Rose41

"I said I want to be a man for you," Erik told her again.

She shifted her weight and cocked a brow. "You are a man for me," she said. "In the most wild, fulfilling, hard, long-lasting, deep-thrusting and sensual meaning of the word. If you were any more a man, I wouldn't be able to walk straight."

"TMI, Christine, TMI!" Raoul shouted.

Erik ignored him and took Christine by the hands. "But I want to take care of you. Outside of, the…well…"

"The swan bed, the boat, the organ bench, the closet outside of the stage, and up against the bedroom wall?" she offered.

Bouquet whistled to himself and apparently disagreed with Raoul that Christine gave more information than they'd ever wanted to know. He gave an eyebrow waggle of approval and licked his lips as though he found her Chrissylicious, which made her roll her eyes in disgust.

"Is that all you think I am?" She pulled her hands away from him and stomped her foot, barely missing his toes. "A cowering little wench who needs a real man to protect her? A trollup who clings to the first man who comes along and digs her kitten-like claws into his manhood?"

"Good God, of course not." He shivered at the thought of kitten-like claws and manhood, which didn't belong in the same sentence—especially when _his_ manhood was involved.

"Good, because Christine is not a helpless waif. Christine—"

"I see that," he interrupted. "And please, no more third person, Christine, it's rather unsettling."

"Right. My apologies." She exhaled, realizing she'd gotten herself worked up once more. The adrenaline rush of fending for herself still left her willing and more than able to put up a fight. "I just don't understand how you could be disappointed in me when I saved myself."

"I'm not," he argued.

"Then what exactly is the problem? You come searching for me, and then when you discover I'm out of harm's way, you seem disappointed. Did you wish to find me beaten or dead?"

"No."

"Then shouldn't you be thrilled?"

"I'm happy to see that you're all right. I couldn't live with myself if he'd hurt you."

"Then what on earth is wrong with you?"

"It's as though you don't even need me," he blurted out. "Your voice is good—it could be better, but you've proven yourself, and now you don't need me to save you from harm. What do you need me for?"

"Just because you and Raoul failed to arrive in time to be manly and heroic does not mean that I don't need you."

He stared at her. "Failed," he said flatly.

Christine gave a sheepish grin. "Oh, well, I didn't mean fail as in _fail_. I meant it more as…well…didn't quite succeed."

"I didn't realize there was a difference," he snapped.

"I knew you would come eventually," she offered. "You always do."

Raoul snickered, which earned him a stern glare from Erik.

"It's just that you've always depended on me…or at least that's what I've imagined. Is it wrong of me to want you to depend on me?"

"But I don't want to depend on you," she protested. "I've been on my own for years—or at least as along as one can be smashed into a dormitory the size of a box of matches with dozens of whining, sniveling little girls." She frowned at him and shook her head. "Is that all you wanted? A woman to cling to you? Answer me that."

"Is that all I wanted? No, that isn't all I wanted. What I've wanted all along was affection, long walks at night, and the other pleasures that come with a relationship between a man and his woman."

"But you have that."

"And I almost lost it. He took her hands in his. "I can't bear to think of losing you."

"You won't, she promised, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. "You're the parts of me that have always been missing. We belong together. And besides, I may not depend on you to save my life when a crazed and vengeful stagehand Chrissynaps me."

"Excuse me?"

"Chrissynaps."

His eyes narrowed.

"Never mind. Erik, just know that I want you. It has nothing to do with needing a man, but wanting one. And I want you."

His eyes brightened, expression changed from dismal to hopeful. "Do you mean that? Honestly?"

She nodded. "I'm glad you came looking for me."

"I would have searched the world for you."

"And I'm glad we had this disagreement."

"You are?"

"Yes, we need to make up," she said with a devilish smile. "And luckily we're close to home because the closer we are to the opera house, the closer we are to the swan bed." She kissed him once on the cheek, and Erik found himself already prepared for the swan bed and all of its promises. "Now, may we discuss this elsewhere?" She pulled away from him and blew air into her cupped hands, then placed them over her no longer heaving bosom. "I'm freezing."

Erik nodded toward Bouquet. "What about him?"

She pursed her lips. "Well, I'd say we march him straight over to Madame Giry and see what she says about all of this kidnapping and debauchery. I'm sure Madame will put him in front of a chorus line and let us all kick him until he's a mezzo soprano."

Erik took her by the hand. "I don't imagine the managers will keep him employed much longer, especially when they hear what has happened."

"I suspect not."

"And if they think of keeping him around, I will persuade them otherwise." He scowled menacingly.

She shivered at his assertive nature and ran the palms of her hands over his chest. "At any rate, I don't plan spending the rest of my career in the Opera Populaire."

He looked at her with genuine concern. "Where will you go?" he asked.

"It's always been my dream to travel." She took his arm, and together they walked toward the open gates of Our Lady of Perpetual Longing. "Anywhere I go, will you go, too?"

"Of course, Christine. If you ask it of me."

"Then that's all I ask of you."


	42. Germination and Triumph

Rose42

_Two weeks later…_

Madame Giry and Christine stood watching the performers rehearse for _Don Juan Triumphant_. With the sets built, the dancers costumed, and the instruments tuned, Christine could hardly wait for the sexy dancing to begin. She looked forward to twirling, hopping, and gyrating before a live audience…or at least in front of Erik as he watched from his box.

While they waited for one of the sets, which had collapsed, to be erected once more, Madame attempted to persuade Christine into a long engagement, but she refused, saying she was impatient and couldn't wait for her own long thing a moment longer. Madame only tipped back her bottle and shrugged, congratulating her.

"Will you remain here?" Madame asked. "Now that Bouquet is gone, you're in no danger, and I'm sure the people of Paris wouldn't mind seeing a different face, a younger face, at least. Carllotta is no longer in her prime," she said, then added, "and hasn't been for a good fifteen years."

With all of the rumors and whispering that always took place in the opera—many times originating in the managers' offices, she decided to merely slip away and become Mrs. Erik Lu'oar in a quiet ceremony.

"We're going to run away," she said dreamily.

"How foolishly romantic," Madame commented.

Besides, with Meg's marriage to the Vicomte de Chagny, there was really no room to discuss her own intentions.

"Romantic," Christine sighed. "Yes, it's very romantic."

"It's idiotic," Madame drunkenly snapped. She took another swig and stumbled, nearly tipping off the stage. "All the best."

"Thank—"

"All right, girls," Madame hollered as she walked away from Christine. "Lift those legs until I can see your internal organs."

The chorus girls exchanged wary looks until Madame raised her cane and swung it around, baring her teeth at the nearest girls, who sprang into the air and dashed away. They formed a line down the middle of the stage and began kicking wildly, rotating their hips and performing various tantalizing, titillating, and sensual movements that could only be performed by very limber seventeen-year-old girls or superhuman contortionists.

Inhaling, Christine turned toward the vacant seats and immediately settled her gaze on Box Five, formerly known as the Phantom's box, currently known (at least to Christine) as the Love Box.

She noticed the slightest movement, a shadow upon a shadow, and smiled. He was there, watching as he always had. It crossed Christine's mind that he may have been watching the sexy dancing rather than her, which wouldn't do at all.

While Madame was preoccupied with threatening the rest of the girls, Christine sneaked off stage in the sexiest way possible and ran down the hall, knowing Erik would follow her.

"Good evening, Christine."

A stiff breeze blew against the back of her neck and she turned, smiling until she saw Raoul.

"What are you doing here?"

"What man could resist a chorus line? Not I, said the fly."

"What fly?"

"Never mind." He rubbed his hands together. "I just wanted to say good bye, farewell, goodnight and good luck. Oh, and any wedding you have, mine will be better. My wedding will be better than yours."

"No, it won't."

He began to circle her. "Yes, it will."

"No, it won't."

"Yes, it will, yes, it will."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Thank you for your kind congratulations and your desire to one-up me."

He grinned. "You're welcome. Say, have you seen Meg? I haven't ravished her all morning and I'm famished for a bite of Giry."

Christine lost her appetite. She shook her head and tried to look sympathetic before she dashed for the safety of her lover's arms. "Good luck on your search for her. I'm sure she's close by."

"Oh, and Christine," he said.

"Yes, Raoul?"

"If things don't work out for you and Lu'oar, I'd be willing to sample a Chrissy-Meg sandwich."

She turned on her heel and rounded the corner, certain she'd vomit. All disturbing thoughts, however, left her mind the moment Erik appeared through a doorway.

"Oh, good!" she exclaimed. "I was hoping you'd be here. I just saw Vicomte de Chagny and he said the most disturbing thing to me."

"No sandwiches," he said. "Not ever, not even to eat."

"Indeed not," she replied as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her head against his chest. She sighed and snuggled closer to him until she could hear his heart beating. "Erik, let's leave right now, right this very minute."

He grunted but didn't reply.

"We'll leave on the first train and take it to wherever it goes. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

"It sounds irrational," he said.

She frowned, knowing he was right. "It sounds like a passionate adventure between two lovers who can't get enough of one another. Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to have sex on a train?"

"No," he answered flatly. "It's honestly never crossed my mind."

"Really?"

"The orchestra pit, my private box, my gondola, my organ bench, and on the flys. Never a train."

"Well, maybe you should add it to the list," she said seductively. "Another place to check off, my love."

Something poked her in the belly, and once she realized he wasn't wearing his sword, she smiled and wriggled her hips to add to the friction. Within seconds he was breathing heavily, each exhale a masculine growl of need. She had him precisely where she wanted him thanks to her feminine charms.

"Let's run away," she suggested again, pouting in order to get her own way.

"Tomorrow."

Damn it, not even a little fancy hip action could sway him.

"But why tomorrow? We should leave right now before we change our minds."

"I'm not about to change my mind. I have no intention of leaving before tomorrow." He stared at her, a hint of anxiety in his green eyes. "At least not until after tonight's performance."

"Ah, of course," she said, hugging him tighter. "How foolish of me to suggest we leave before your opera is finally performed."

"Yes, Christine," he murmured as he stroked her hair back from her face. "Tonight is the opening. The first performance of my life's work."

His expression changed to something she'd never seen before. For a long moment she stared at him, studying his eyes and the smile on his face until she realized that he was beaming with pride.

"How many years did you spend writing it?" she asked.

"Almost twenty years," he answered. "Two years after I moved in here I began to write the music for it. I composed day and night." His lips twitched. "It was all I had to do in my days. Compose or…wait."

She kissed him tenderly and placed her palm to his cheek. "It's a masterpiece," she said against his lips. "From the first time I heard you play the overture I realized I was listening to a true work of art. I cannot wait until the curtain opens and we're on stage."

"Together," he said. "As I've wanted for so long, to be on stage with you, to see you up close. It's the only way I could ever imagine seeing you in this part."

"You should have rehearsed with us."

"No," he answered quickly. "I know my part. I know every part."

"But I wanted you there," she said. "The composer, the lead part in the opera. Sure, Piangi can sing, but I would have liked to practice with you."

"Next time," he assured her, which she gathered was a pleasant way of him saying he wasn't yet ready to face the rest of the theater.

Ever since they'd returned from the graveyard, he'd continued to stay by himself, preferring to slink around the opera house rather than meet with everyone. As a creature of habit, she didn't expect him to show himself the first day. However, it would be impossible for him to take the stage and expect to remain an opera ghost. Everyone would be talking about him—and she hoped when they realized he was a musical genius that they'd look past his obvious faults.

"I'm happy for you. After all your years of hard work and mastering the music around you, you'll finally see it performed," she said, taking him by the hand.

"I never expected to see it performed."

"Why not?"

"The people of Paris aren't yet ready for this."

"Well, then they better hold onto their seats because it will be performed. I, for one, plan to leave them speechless. Of course, I think the choreography that Madame has in mind will probably leave most of their older folks half-dead and the younger people mauling one another in their seats. I expect tonight there will be many babies conceived in this very theater."

He smiled at that. "You leave me speechless, Christine."

"And now, after everything we've been through, I think we should celebrate."

"Oh?"

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled as they walked up the spiral staircase leading to the balcony. She dragged her fingers along the marble wall suggestively and gave him an eyebrow raise. "Let's make some music of our own."


End file.
